


Color Outside the Lines

by Imnotahero



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Artist Stiles Stilinski, Child Neglect, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, He gets better, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inspired by a Movie, Loosely based on the movie Shelter, M/M, References to Depression, Scott is kind of a douche, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Surfing, but for somewhat understandable reasons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-02-26 09:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13233183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnotahero/pseuds/Imnotahero
Summary: Stiles isn’t unhappy. Not really. But that doesn’t mean he’s happy either. He just is. Exists. Goes through the motions, does his job, takes care of his niece and tries to hold the remnants of his fraying family together. In his world there's no place for dreams, college or personal happiness.Then, Cora's brother Derek arrives back in town and slowly things start to change. Could it even be for the better, and will Stiles have the courage to color outside the carefully constructed lines of his life?***A story completely devoid of werewolves and other supernatural elements. Somewhat inspired by the movie "Shelter" (2007).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written completely unplanned and is basically the result of me procrastinating working on my original story during Nano 2017. It's inspired by the movie "Shelter" (2007). If you've seen it you'll probably recognize the premise and some of the scenes, but I've altered it a fair bit to fit with the Teen Wolf characters and relationships. If you haven't seen the movie, you totally should. 
> 
> I apologize for portraying Scott in a bad light for large portions of the story. His backstory is slowly revealed and does shed some light on his behavior, and he evolves as the story progresses. Stiles is often frustrated with him, but never hates him. In this world Melissa and the Sheriff married when Stiles and Scott was young, and so they're step brothers. 
> 
> All mistakes, plot holes, misspellings and horrid grammar are mine and mine alone (and now shared with you). It's a story written on a whim and without much planning so there might be inconsistencies. With that said, I hope you enjoy it none the less.

Stiles isn’t unhappy. Not really.

Even if he’s not unhappy, that doesn’t mean he’s happy either. In fact, there’s a big gap from what he’s feeling to "happy". No. That’s not right. _Gap_ isn’t the right word. It’s more like a _schism_. Worse, Stiles has no idea how to bridge the gap. How to close the schism. Maybe it’s not even possible? He’s not unhappy, and he’s not happy. He just - he just _is_. Exists. Goes through the motions, never really complaining, because there’s no point and it won’t change things anyway.

He’s present, he does his job, he minds his responsibilities, but he doesn’t truly live. Not in the way he used to think he would at the age of 21. Not how he envisioned his future, back when things were still possible. When dreams weren’t just dreams, but promises of a future to come. When said dreams were still within the scope of realism, and not just wisps of smoke that slip out of his hands as soon as he tries to hold on to them. Instead, it’s a pipe dream drifting off, like a lost helium balloon. Just a pinprick in the sky, soon gone for good. There is no point chasing it.

So he doesn’t. Doesn’t chase, doesn’t dwell, doesn’t dream or, worse of all - _hope_. He just - is.

“Uncle Stiles.”

A small tug on his t-shirt brings him back to the present and out of his downward-spiraling ruminations. Just as well. Trust Vicky to always ground him. In many ways, she’s his saving grace. His anchor.

“What is it, pumpkin?” he asks, ruffling her dark curls affectionately. She doesn’t protest of squirm the way kids usually do. Instead, she leans into it. Like a touch-starved kitten.

“I’m out of paper,” she says, her voice tinged with pride and the tiniest hint of apprehension. The slight lisp only makes her more endearing to him. Her bright doe-eyed stare meets his, eagerly awaiting his critique.

Stiles absentmindedly picks up one of her crayons, noting that she’ll soon need of a new set. It’s so worn down her petite hands struggle to hold on to them when she draws. He tosses it up into the air and catches it deftly, his other hand stroking his chin in mock-stern contemplation as he scrutinizes her work through narrow eyes.

“Do you like it?” Vicky inquires breathlessly. Stiles hums, nose crinkling.

“Look, that’s you,” she clarifies, pointing to a stick figure next to a shockingly blue car. Or at least he thinks it’s a car.

“And that’s me,” she adds, indicating the other stick figure, a lopsided triangle-shape in a shocking violet color the only way to identify its supposed gender. Their stick-figure counterparts are holding hands. The rest of the paper is filled with doodles, rainbows and stars in all manner of colors. The overall effect is somewhat hypnotic.

“It’s a stunning piece of art,” Stiles praises. Vicky preens.

“I don't see your dad here,” he continues, mentally slapping himself when Vicky’s face crumbles, her fringe falling into her eyes as she lowers her head. It needs a cut, Stiles notes. Perhaps he can get Lydia to help with that later this week.

“Daddy’s -” Vicky begins, but the rest of the sentence trails off as a shadow falls over the picnic table they’ve commandeered. The next second an apron with “Bobby’s Market” emblazoned in garish yellow letters lands atop Vicky’s drawing, crumbling it in the process.

“Daddy’s here,” she completes in a barely audible mutter, scooting over on the bench without being asked. Stiles is reminded of a timid rabbit. Predictably, Scott ignores his daughter, dumping onto the bench, face folded in perturbed folds. Stiles hopes the cold shoulder routine is unintentional. That Scott’s simply too exhausted to realize he’s hurting Vicky's feelings. Sadly, he knows better.

If it only happened after grueling shifts at the store, he’d be more inclined to believe his own theory. Sadly, it happens just as much at home. Stiles has breached the topic with Scott on numerous occasions, but it never strikes a positive note. More often than not it leads to yelling and slammed doors which is far from ideal with a kid in the house. So, in a desperate attempt to make up for Scott’s lackluster interest, Stiles goes out of his way to be the best uncle that ever uncled.

“Fuck,” Scott breathes, lowering his forehead to the rickety tabletop. “Fuck,” he repeats, slightly too loudly drawing attention from a few shoppers on their way into the store. Stiles smiles brightly, giving a friendly wave. They still shake their heads, obviously not impressed. 

“Language,” Stiles admonishes. “Also, hello to you, too,” he continues, trying his best to keep the annoyance in his voice to a bare minimum. Scott is oftentimes astonishingly inept at reading people and situations, but he’s usually very tuned in to Stiles’ veiled barbs and sarcasm. Like he has a built-in radar. Today, he either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

“Finstock’s in one of his moods,” Scott mutters darkly. “I swear, if we didn’t need the paycheck, I would strangle the man with this very apron.”

Vicky’s eyes bulge, staring at her dad in near horror. Five year olds have a hard time understanding figurative statements. Scott literally doesn’t seem to realize.

“Your dad’s not serious,” Stiles hurries to clarify. Vicky has enough nightmares as it is. There’s no need to add to it.

“Yes I am,” Scott blusters, flipping his middle finger in the direction of the security camera covering the store entry. Stiles knows it’s not working, so it’s an empty threat, yet doesn’t exactly help ease Vicky’s worried face.

“I was this close to pummeling him with cans of honeyed apricots today. They’re on sale, two for the price of one, amazing deal. Horrible product.”

He bangs his head against the table again for emphasis and lurches away, swearing.

“For Christ’s sake, kid! I’ve told you not to leave this shit around.”

He flicks the remnants of a red crayon in Vicky’s direction. It bumps into a few others on the way, causing half her pile to cascade to the ground. She quickly disappears underneath the table to retrieve them, and Stiles takes the moment to jerk the apron out from underneath Scott’s resting arms, causing his elbows to crash into the edge. Scott curses colorfully. 

“Sorry,” he says flippantly, throwing it over his head so it’s draped across his torso like a polyester breast plate. Sadly, it won’t shield him from either Scott’s mood or the prospect of seven hours of refilling shelves, packing bags and dodging Finstock. Scott glares as Stiles ducks low to say goodbye to Vicky.

“You be good for your dad, okay? I’ll be back later.”

Vicky’s eyes are wet with unshed tears and Stiles’ heart bleeds guilty feelings all over the car park. Reluctantly he gets to his feet, giving Vicky an encouraging smile.

“Can I have the Jeep?”

Scott holds out his hand expectantly when Stiles emerges.

“Can’t you take the bus?” he asks, knowing perfectly well that, no, Scott can’t. Or won’t. “I was planning on meeting up with the others after. There’s a bonfire -”

“Honestly, Stiles. Not that bunch again? What’s the point?” Scott sneers. “They return to college in a few days anyway, and I’m exhausted. Also, I need you to watch Vicky tonight. I have a date.”

Stiles grinds his teeth. He’s losing this argument, and that without even presenting a single counter-point. He could argue it all. But he won’t. Not in front of Vicky. So instead, he simply digs out his keys, hands them over, blows Vicky a kiss and slumps off to face a seven hour shift at Bob’s Market.

  
It’s not like it can get much worse, anyway.

 

  
****

 

  
Stiles’ room is his sanctuary.

It’s the only place in the house he truly lets his guard down, especially now dad’s not living here anymore. The moment he moved out the safeness and security of Stiles’ childhood left with him. The house is the same, the wallpaper still faded and the interior hasn’t changed in any significant way. Yet, despite the sameness of the place it somehow feels hollow and colder. Almost as if a chill is slowly creeping in, making its way through cracks, taking root and growing. These days the only thing tethering Stiles is Vicky. She brings a perimeter of warmth wherever she goes, and Stiles tries to stay close, doing his best to keep her safe and happy. His worst fear is that the chill one day will catch up with her.

Ink-stained fingers clutch a cheap ballpoint pen, transforming the once blank page in his lap into an intricate labyrinth of symbols, ribbons and spheres. Stiles has no conscious idea behind it. He just lets the pen do what it wants. If he stops to analyze, which he doesn’t, one might suggest it’s an analogy of his life. It used to promise a well of opportunities, places to visit, people to get to know, themes and topics to explore. A labyrinth of endless possibilities, the road ahead filled with winding roads that all lead to the center where college diplomas, fulfilling jobs and happy endings waited. Instead, Stiles' life has turned into a maze. Not a labyrinth leading him to a fixed goal, but instead a maze of twisting roads, dead ends and traps. No path seem to lead him any nearer his goals. Instead, he’s stuck, feet ensnared in curling wines, always struggling, never moving.

Eventually, Stiles runs out of space. Chewing on the pen, he leans over to his bedside table to grab a pin, then stretches up to tack it to his wall. Every inch is covered in doodles and drawings of varying size, style and complexity. Even his nightstand and bedposts are decorated in red and black sharpie. Melissa had always berated him whenever she caught him in the act. Stiles never really understood what the big deal was. It was his bed. Why shouldn’t he decorate it how he wanted? Maybe she’d planned to sell some of the furniture one day, when he and Scott moved out. She never gave an explanation, just confiscated the pens and shook her head in exasperation. His dad however had simply chuckled, ruffled Stiles’ hair and snuck him more sharpies.

That was then. Now, it's reduced to nothing but a distant memory. An echo fading fast. A notion best left alone if he wants to avoid dark thoughts and restless nights.

His phone peeps shrilly, piercing the silence. Stiles curses, indistinctly knowing who it’s from. He’s half tempted to ignore it, but after a minute he caves, reading the text with sinking heart and mounting irritation.

**_Won’t be back till 2morrow. Take care of Vicky._ **

He’s not surprised. Scott has of late developed a predictable pattern of mindless dates, one-night stands, and copious amounts of alcohol. It’s gotten even worse since dad left, the last parental figure out of sight. It pains Stiles to witness this destructive behavior, but he’s the first to admit he’s reached the point where he can’t muster the energy to confront Scott again. Not for lack of trying. He did that for months, but it never helped any. Quite the opposite in fact. The more Stiles nagged, the worse Scott’s partying got. As soon as Stiles stopped giving a shit, it plateaued, which sounds better than it is. He’s still out at least four out of seven days a week, and the days spent at home he’s hungover and miserable. Not exactly a recipe for happy home life.

Stiles sighs, a wave of raw sympathy coursing through him. There’s no denying Scott’s acting like a world class douche, but it’s not like he doesn’t have his reasons. Stiles understands he’s got demons and pain to deal with, and in many ways he’s free to handle that how he pleases. Only, he’s not just Scott, the individual. He’s also Scott, the dad. Sometimes, Stiles wonders if he’s forgotten, or if he’s acutely aware and yet chooses to ignore it, trusting Stiles to pick up the slack. He doesn’t really want to know the answer to that, scared that it’s actually the latter. Regardless, Stiles is reliable as clockwork, always putting Vicky first. In many ways, he’s not helping, but rather enabling Scott. If he stops. If he refuses to pick up his slack, the one really suffering is Vicky, and he can’t bare the thought of that.

Taking care of Vicky isn’t really an issue. Stiles adores her to the moon and back, but it will complicate his morning. Sighing, he sets his alarm to six, factoring in time to get Vicky to the sitter before his shift at Bobby’s start at 7. He’s just burrowed down, ready for bed when the door creaks open. Soon, a bushy-haired silhouette materializes in the doorway.

“Uncle Stiles?”

Vicky’s voice is sleep-muffled, but with a slight tremble. Nightmare, Stiles concludes. He hasn’t heard her scream, but then again, her most intense dreams always seem to be the ones where she wakes up paralyzed and silent.

“Hey, sweetie. Can’t sleep?”

Vicky ventures further into the room, dragging her stuffed bunny behind her by the ears. She shrugs, but doesn’t answer. Which is answer enough in itself.

“Wanna sleep here with me?”

He scoots over, lifting the blanket in invitation. Vicky scampers over and is soon snuggled firmly into the crook of his arm, the rabbit imitating her position in Vicky’s embrace.

“Can you tell me a bedtime story?” she asks timidly. Only her eyes are visibly above the blanket, and they shine with pleas Stiles is unable to turn down.

“Sure. Did you have a particular in mind?”

Of course, he knows the answer.

“Tell me the one about the pen,” she whispers, closing her eyes. Stiles takes a deep breath, and stroking her hair gently he tells the fairy tale story of how Vicky's mother met her father. A snippet of her past she’s never experienced, yet cherishes like a treasure. A memory suspended in time. A happier time she’s yearning to be a part of, but is forever lost to her.

Outside a car alarm blears and the distant noise from the corner bar provides a constant blanket of background noise. The world spins madly on, the whole world moving, save from two lost souls tucked safely under a blanket, anchoring each other.

 

 

  
***

 

 

“Sit still, honey.”

Lydia’s voice is the epitome of calm patience. It always baffles Stiles to see this side of her, but then again it only seems to materialize whenever Vicky is around. Stiles suspects it’s because she looks exactly like her. Like Allison, and Allison was Lydia’s best friend.

“My nose itches,” Vicky complains, scrunching it like a little rabbit. Lydia hands her a comb with one end resembling a knitting needle.

“Here, use this. Just don’t poke your eye out,” she adds, waggling one perfectly manicured finger in her face. Vicky giggles, going to work on her nose.

Fifteen minutes later, the process is over and Vicky happily escapes the confinement of the barstool and the cape Lydia had wrapped around her.

“Can I play outside?” she asks, and Lydia nods.

“Run along, we’ll be right out.”

She beckons for Stiles to follow her to the tiny kitchen where she proceeds to pull out a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and dig out a packet of cookies.

“She looks tired,” she comments, fetching a tray from the cupboard.

“She had a bad night,” Stiles explains, knowing that Lydia knows what that means. She frowns, loading up the tray, then sweeps out of the room, gesturing for Stiles to follow.

“Let me guess - Scott’s out again?”

Stiles nods. He holds open the patio door for her, anxiously craning his neck to see where Vicky has gone, but she’s already camped out in the sandbox, mumbling to herself as she constructs lopsided structures.

“I don’t know if I want to hug him or strangle him,” Lydia says, filling Stiles' glass and handing it to him. “I get that he’s hurting, I really do, but this is bordering on neglect. Have you talked to him about this?”

Stiles squirms. “I’ve tried,” he says, knowing that he should probably try harder. Lydia harrumphs.

“I know you have. It’s not your responsibility, Stiles. She’s Scott’s daughter and yet I’d say you’re more of a parent to her than he’s been since the accident.”

“He’s mourning.”

“We’re _all_ mourning,” Lydia hisses. Stiles can see her knuckles turn white as she holds on to her glass just a little too tightly. “It’s been almost a year. In many ways I think it would be better if you did leave. Then he has no choice but to step up.”

“I can’t just do that.”

Stiles’ heart beats unnaturally fast. Just the mention of leaving, gets his pulse racing. It’s what he wants more than anything, and yet the one thing he can’t bring himself to even consider. And not just because of Vicky. There’s also dad.

“Yes, you _can_.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.”

Lydia smiles that sad smile of hers. The one that always catches Stiles off guard, because it’s so open and vulnerable. Lydia seldom lets anyone see that part of her. Stiles reaches for her hand, entwines their fingers and squeezes. She returns the gesture, returning her gaze to Vicky.

“She looks just like her,” she remarks.

“Yeah.”

There’s not really anything else to say. Vicky looks like a miniature Allison, from the billowing dark hair, the warm eyes, and the dimples. Stiles suspects their likeness is part of why Scott keeps his distance. She’s a constant reminder, tearing his wound open, never allowing it to scab over and heal. It’s why he’s been so lenient with Scott the past year. Taking more and more care of Vicky, allowing him time and space to grieve. Only, it’s not really working.

They sit for a long while, not speaking, simply watching Vicky construct a city of sand. It’s comfortable. They’re comfortable. It’s Lydia who finally breaks the silence.

“I miss her.”

Her voice hitches. Stiles turns to see that her cheeks are tear-stained.

“I know,” he says. It’s pointless but the only thing he has to offer. He feels drained dry, no more emotions left to give. Lydia sniffs, drying her cheeks, seemingly content with his response.

“I miss you, too,” she whispers almost shyly, which honestly is what gets him more than anything. Lydia is never shy about anything, and certainly not him. It’s been months since they broke up, realizing they were more friends than anything else. Stiles has moved on, never once questioning this decision. It throws him that Lydia apparently does.

“Why did we break up again? I’ve forgotten,” Lydia continues, seemingly unaware that Stiles isn’t on the same page. He has no idea what spurred this on. Maybe it was the memories of Allison. Maybe it’s just nostalgia, or the ticking of their inner clocks speeding up as they’re stepping into full adulthood, expectations of family and settling down getting stronger.

When Lydia leans over and kisses him, Stiles doesn’t stop her. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t lean in either, meeting her. Instead, he just sits there, allowing it to happen. It feels nice. Safe. Familiar. In the back of his mind a soft voice whispers an existential question Stiles isn’t ready to face.

_Is this enough?_

It has to be. Stiles has lost too much, and isn’t willing to lose more. So, he kisses her back.

 

  
***

 

  
Later, when Vicky has built, destroyed and conquered several sand settlements, they venture inside for a light dinner. After, they settle down to watch Frozen for the umpteenth time. Stiles secretly suspects Lydia loves it as much as Vicky. Just as Elsa decides to let it go, his phone buzzes with a text. He reads it. frowning, unsure how to respond.

“Who’s it from?” Lydia mouths over Vicky’s head so not to disturb her concentration as she mouths along to the song. Stiles simply holds up his phone, letting her read it for herself. 

“You should go," she whispers. "I can take care of Vicky for tonight. She can stay the night, too.”

Stiles shakes his head. Lydia sighs.

“You deserve a night off, Stiles,” she urges. After a bit of prodding he relents, texts back and gets up, kissing Vicky’s forehead. She swats him away.

“You’re blocking Elsa! This is the best part.”

“Sorry, honey. I’ll be back later, okay. Be good for aunt Lydia.”

“Honestly, she can stay. You don’t have to -.”

Lydia trails off, reading Stiles’ expression with ease. “I get it,” she says, smiling sadly. Vicky seems more cheerful today, but still looks drawn and tired. The nightmares have grown steadily worse lately. Stiles is hesitant to remove the only constant point in her life - her house and Stiles’ presence.

“I’ll drive her back in a few hours and stay until you get back,” Lydia whispers. Stiles nods. Vicky will be okay for a few hours. He leaves with a small wave, a smile on his face.

 

  
*****

 

  
Stiles is drunk. Not sloshed in the three-sheets-to-the-wind kind of inebriation, but more the pleasantly buzzed kind. Mellow enough that the edges are gone and his constant worry pushed to the back of his mind, and yet miles away from likely-to-dance-half-naked-on-the-bar-Coyote-Ugly-style. He did that once. Cora loves to remind him at inopportune times. She also claims to have the video to prove it. It’s a scary notion and reason alone to keep on her good side.

Stiles smiles to himself. Lydia is right. He needs this. Needs a reprieve. Lydia has always been the smart one after all.

He’s sitting on a log, sand curling between his toes and a bonfire warming the back of his washed-out hoodie. He’s nursing a beer watching Cora trying her best to master drunk night-surfing. She’s surprisingly good, given that she’s at least three levels drunker than he is. Then again, she grew up on the beach, surfing every day with her older siblings. If Stiles had such privilege he’d probably be a better surfer, too. Instead, he’s just passable. Not that he has much time to spare for it anyway, and with Cora off to college most of the year, there’s not all that many left to surf with. Solo surfing really isn’t his thing.

“Get out here, scaredy-cat!” Cora hollers.

Stiles can see her open her mouth again, probably to shout out something incredibly indecent if he knows her right, and after so many years he feels he can safely say he does. Instead, she’s swallowed by a wayward wave, pulled under with a shrill yelp. Her entourage guffaws and Stiles shakes his head. He’ll miss her when she leaves. It’s been good having her back this summer, even if he hasn’t managed to spend nearly as much time with her as he’s wanted to. Between his job, taking care of Vicky and Scott’s volatile moods, time has run out much too quickly.

Stiles curses when a wet towel smacks him in the face. Before he can extract himself from it, Cora flings herself into his lap, wet and gasping, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Did you see?” she crows.

“Yep. Saw you crash and burn. Pathetic.”

Cora snorts, flicking Stiles’ ear. “You own the patent to Pathetic, Stilinski. I wouldn’t get too cocky if I were you.”

“Touche,” Stiles retorts, because she’s right. He’s the most pathetic fucker here. The one who will be left behind in just a few days when they all leave for school. For frat houses, endless parties, hook-ups, and, providing there’s time, some actual learning. In turn, he can look forward to an endless line of dull shifts at Bobby’s Market solely to earn enough money to keep the house and pay for his dad’s care, and the rest he’ll dedicate to taking care of Vicky so she isn’t snatched away by Child Protection Services until Scott gets his act together.

“You could come with me.”

It’s almost as if Cora can read his mind. Can detect the depressive content of his life, and wants to make it better. Stiles laughs mirthlessly. Cora does this every semester. Like clockwork she launches into her get-Stiles-to-leave campaign the day before she departs. As if she hopes the tight deadline will spur spontaneity on his part.

“I couldn’t,” he replies, tone wistful.

“You _could_ ,” Cora argues, “you just _chooses_ not to. Not the same thing. Fucking Scott,” she adds as an afterthought. The word ‘Scott’ is hissed out as if the syllabus is poisonous on her tongue. They’ve never really gotten along, not even back when things were good. Stiles never really understood why. He’s not sure even they know anymore. Perhaps they never did.

“Same, same but different,” Stiles quips, knowing how much that saying grates on her. She answers by dumping a generous handful of sand down his shirt.

“Sand, sand but different,” she cackles, pulling him down with her into a messy tangle of limbs.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Stiles admits when their laughter has died down, and the seriousness of both the moment and Cora’s impending departure, really hits them.

“I know. I’ll miss you, too.”

She pauses, fiddling with the multitude of braided bracelets on her left arm. The one in faded blue Stiles made last summer. He roots around in his shorts’ pocket and hands her a small paper bag. Cora accepts it, the soft smile on her face something he’ll keep with him in the weeks to come, like a cherished ray of sunshine.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, slipping the new bracelet on, admiring the fluorescent yellow band.

“I’m not sure that’s the right choice of words,” Stiles grins. “It’s hideous, but unforgettable,” he clarifies, eliciting a bark of laughter.

“So, it’s meant to remind me of you, then?” Cora winks, or tries to anyway. She’s just a touch too drunk to manage it with any level of finesse and sass. In fact, she looks slightly deranged.

“Exactly. Minus the hideous part. It will light up your life - literally,” he adds. “It glows in the dark.”

“Thanks.” She’s running an unsteady hand over the leather cords, familiarizing it, before abruptly staggering to her feet.

“Come on, Stilinski. Take me home!”

Stiles waves goodbye to the other people scattered around the bonfire and trails after Cora who’s already halfway to the cars. He steers her away from her pickup, plucking her keys out of her back pocket. She protests half-heartedly while Stiles calls them an Uber.

“I need the car tomorrow,” she wines when they’re propped up against each other in the backseat of an old Honda. “It’s taking me back to school.”

“You’re loaded, you can afford a taxi. Or an Uber. Don’t be a baby. Your trust fund is bigger than my house.”

She swats him, but doesn’t argue. It’s true, though. The Hales are filthy rich. Cora’s parents aren’t home much these days, so the large beach-side villa is mostly unoccupied now that Cora’s at college. Laura and Derek moved out long ago. Stiles has no idea what they do now. He hardly sees Cora as it is, and when they get together her siblings somehow never come up. Stiles doesn’t even feel like he knows Laura at all. She’s the oldest and was never really around much when they were younger, anyway. Derek sometimes came surfing, but mostly stuck to himself. When Stiles pictures Derek in his mind, it’s always with a book in his hands. It’s fitting that he ended up an author.

“You’ll come see me off, right?” Cora slurs sleepily.

“Of course.”

“Good. I kinda expected Scott to come up with something to prevent it. He’s such a bag of dicks these days,” she adds, eyes narrowed.

“You always thought he was a bag of dicks,” says Stiles quietly. Cora pokes her tongue out.

“Not true. I used to think he was _a dick_. Singular.”

Stiles sighs then shrugs. It’s true enough. Cora and Scott never really clicked and the animosity somehow only grew with time. They shared a lot of classes in high school, and during freshman year Cora and Stiles became fast friends. Scott always tagged along, albeit a bit grumpily. It had always been Scott and Stiles, this unbreakable duo, and perhaps Scott was jealous, although he didn’t have any reason to. It wasn’t like Stiles dumped him to hang out with Cora. Scott was always included. Stiles has never figured out exactly what spurred Scott's dislike for Cora, but it extended to her entire family so perhaps it was the wealth. By comparison, Stiles and Scott live in squalor. Cora never made an issue of that, never mentioned it or rubbed it in. She still drove a fancy car, and her clothes were cool and expensive, but that never mattered to Stiles. She was a cool surfer-chick with lots of sass, she was fun and she got all his lame jokes. As an added bonus, she was also into art even if she sucked at it. 

It got better once Allison started school in sophomore year. Scott feel in love at first sight, and Stiles will freely admit that their love story was as cute as it was epic. Of course, that epic romance turned lifetime movie with Allison’s pregnancy at 16 and tragedy with her death at 20. Now, Scott is perpetually stuck in a dark noir drama specked with too much booze and destructive behavior.

“Scott’s on first shift tomorrow, so he’s at work. I’ll bring Vicky if that’s okay?”

Cora grins lopsidedly.

“That’s more than okay. I can’t go back without a kiss from my good luck charm.”

Stiles stares out the back window as the car drives away from the huge two-story mansion, Cora fumbling with her keys at the main door, a weird fluttering sensation in his stomach. Almost as if he can sense that something’s in the air.

He quickly pushes that notion to the back of his mind. None of his wishes, prayers and hopes the last couple of years have come close to true. Why should it start now?

 

  
***

 

“I’m gonna miss this bundle of cuteness!” Cora exclaims, burrowing her face in Vicky’s black waves of hair, blowing raspberries. Vicky squeals in delight.

“You’re so small and cuddly, I want you to be my new teddybear. I think I can fit you in my suitcase. If I fold you neatly in half, I’m sure I can squeeze you in.”

She reaches for her luridly green suitcase. Vicky protests heatedly.

“I don’t fold!” she exclaims, hands on her sides, one hip tilted to the right. Stiles decides she’s spending way too much time with Lydia. He’s starting to see her in some of the kid’s mannerisms.

“You sure?” Cora fakes surprise, surveying the girl from head to toe, looking pensive. “Here, let me try.”

She grabs for Vicky, who immediately runs off down the parking lot, peels of laughter trailing after her.

“You’re good with her,” Stiles remarks. “She’ll miss your special brand of crazy. _I’ll_ miss your special brand of crazy.”

“I know,” Cora says cockily, winking. Her winking-skills are much improved by sobriety.

“I repeat my invitation, Stiles. You’re welcome to come visit. I can totally get you a room for free at one of the frat houses. I’ll even spring for the bus ticket if I have to.”

Stiles just glares at her, and she throws her hands up. “Fine! Just know that the offer stands until the end of days. Now," she says, clapping her hands excitedly,  "it’s time for my parting gifts to you.”

Before Stiles can protests, she reaches inside her bag, pulling out a massive box wrapped in all the colors of the rainbow and then some. It has the biggest bow ever on top. From behind a black Mercedes, Vicky’s head emerges, practically smelling presents in the air, like a well-trained St.Bernhard’s.

“Is that for me?” she inquires almost shyly. Cora pretends to ponder the question with much ado. Vicky’s jumping up and down on the spot, ants in her pants and anticipation oozing from every pore.

“No, it’s for Stiles.”

Vicky’s face falls, but she recovers quickly. “That’s fair,”she says matter-of-fact. “Uncle Stiles is always sad. He needs something to cheer him up.”

The words cut like a razor, through Stiles’ skin, neatly severing his ribs and plunges into his heart. From the words of drunks and kids. That’s where they say hard truths often comes. In that case, Stiles is cursed, surrounded as he is most of the time with both.

“I’m just kidding. Of course, it's for you!”

Cora spins back to Vicky, brandishing the packet with a flourish. Vicky staggers slightly as she accepts, dropping down on the ground without consideration of the dirt. She tears into the wrapping with abandon.

“I have another gift for Uncle Stiles,” Cora continues conversationally. Stiles freezes.

“I don’t need gifts.”

Cora’s silent but the roll of her eyes is somehow deafening.

“I say there’s a great need. Humongous, in fact. Besides,” she adds, grinning. “I didn’t get you anything new or expensive, which should count for something. I’m all too familiar with your absurdly strict rules about “charity”.

She adds the air quotes and schools her tone in a somewhat near imitation of him.

“We’ve debated this before. I stand firm in my belief.” Stiles crosses his arms, ready to fight Cora on whatever silly thing she’s deemed vital to his life. It’s usually frivolous and exceedingly expensive. To his surprise, she simply hands him a key.

“It’s to the gate at the back of the house,” she explains. “I’ve taken the liberty of properly prepping that longboard you still got stashed at our house. You surf way too seldom if that just sits there gathering dust. And - “ she adds, waggling a finger in his face, effectively squashing any protest building. “I did all the work myself,” she explains. “No paid expert, no expensive waxes or anything. Just labor and love.”

She sighs, clasping his shoulder. “Just promise me you’ll get out there more. I find it clears the mind.” She smiles. “I know you love surfing, and that’s like the one good thing about being stuck here. The waves are awesome, all year.”

She puts the key in the pocket of his hoodie jacket when Stiles makes no move to accept it. When she drives off, leaning on the horn until she’s out of sight, Stiles stands there waving, one hand around Vicky’s shoulders and the other clasping the small brass key tightly. The moment feels significant.

Then Finstock calls, breaking the enchantment, demanding Stiles cover for Hernandez, and just like that it’s nothing but another Thursday.

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
Stiles stares at the blank wall, indecision and doubt coursing through him. Stares at the small holes left after nails and pincushions have been removed, the slightly mis-colored areas where the sun, gradually over many years, has turned crisp white walls slightly yellow. He’s never sympathized more with the character of Joey Potter from Dawson’s Creek than in this moment, faced with a blank canvas and the freedom to express himself however he wants. It’s a daunting task. Turns out too much freedom can lay a clammy hand over creativity.

Cans of black and red paint are lined up behind him, lids removed and the smell of freshly stirred paint filling the room. Stiles is twirling a brush between long fingers, checking and re-checking that the floor is appropriately covered in old newspapers to avoid spillage. Everything is in order and ready. And yet, he’s stuck. Kept at bay by invisible barriers and crippling creator’s block. He desperately wants to brighten this place up somehow, but simply painting a cheery image seems insufficient. He wants it to mean something to his dad. To create something profound.

Not that his dad will necessarily notice or appreciate it. In his current state he only has brief moments of lucidity and they’re few and far between. He’s deteriorating fast, both in body and mind. Watching him wither away is slowly killing Stiles and yet there’s nothing he can do. Except paint his room, perhaps with a desperate hope that it’ll somehow, magically heal him. Which it wont. Stiles knows that. Maybe that’s part of the problem.

At the moment his dad’s sleeping. He’s been doing that more lately. Maybe it’s the assortment of drugs he’s on, or maybe it’s his body’s way of showing the world he’s not really part of it anymore. Stiles is tempted to wake him, but it won’t make much change. The odds of him even realizing who Stiles is, are slim.

A nurse pokes her head inside, spots Stiles and smiles broadly.

“Hi,” she trills, stepping into the room, cheeks rosy. She walks over to check his dad’s vitals, casting surreptitious glances over her shoulder. Stiles pretends not to notice.

“Been here long?” she asks casually. Stiles shrugs.

“A while. Do you think he’ll wake any time soon?”

Her smile shrinks. “It’s hard to tell. He was pretty alert yesterday for about an hour. There’s no clear pattern, sadly.”

“Okay. I’ll just hang around a while longer then, if that’s alright.”

“Sure,” she says just a bit too eagerly. “You getting started today?” she asks, gesturing to the wall.

Stiles petitioned the head of the facility months ago to paint his dad’s room, and they grudgingly agreed, providing he would paint over it again when the time came his dad no longer needed it. Stiles hopes that day never comes, but fears it’ll be here much too soon for his liking.

“Maybe,” Stiles answers vaguely, thought it’s pretty obvious it’ll be another unproductive visit.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” she says, probably sensing there’s not much more to get out of Stiles today. The door closes behind her with a soft thud and Stiles collapses against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, newspapers crinkling around him. He leans his head back, fighting the urge to either scream or cry.

Looking at him now it’s hard to fathom that the figure tucked under blankets and tubes was once a highly decorated police officer, destined for a major promotion if rumors were to believed. Officer Stilinski had all the right qualifications. Decorated war hero, worked his way up from beat cop, and on the brink of detective status. He was fair and with a moral integrity worth aspiring to.

Then, just weeks before his promotion would come into effect, he was caught in the crossfire at a robbery gone wrong. He’d taken multiple bullets, including one to the head. All in all, he’d been incredibly lucky, and at first it looked like he’d escaped the ordeal with just the prospect of months of physical therapy to rebuild some of his motor functions. That is, until his memory started slipping.

First it was just minor stuff. Like mixing the dates or forgetting birthdays. It wasn’t until it began affecting his speech it became clear the bullet had done some irreversible damage. A series of experts, neuron-specialists and other doctors with fancy titles poked, prodded, and tested at length, but the conclusion was always the same. John Stilinski’s brain was too damaged to repair, and it was nothing they could do.

Now, all Stiles can do is watch his dad slowly slipping away, one memory at the time.

An hour pass, and Stiles’ dad continues to sleep. Stiles leaves, wall still blank. Much like him.

 

  
***

 

  
Stiles loves Lydia. He really does. He’s just not _in love_ with her. Not anymore.

Explaining that to her is hard. So he doesn’t. That’s always been his strategy regarding most things uncomfortable or awkward. Avoidance. Somehow, it seems pointless to change tactics now. So, he does his best to ignore the problem, hoping it eventually goes away.

It doesn’t.

Just like Stiles, Lydia is stuck in town, which means they’re also stuck with each other. There are worse fates. Without her, he’d be totally lost. He wants her around. Needs her, even. He just don’t want to date her, but he’s scared taking away that part, will remove all of her.

It was all so much simpler before. Stiles used to be madly in love with her, and they dated for the last year of high school. The plan was for both to start college. Lydia had her heart set on UCLA, and for Stiles Cal Arts was the dream. It seemed meant to be, as if their fates were entwined. Now, the premise has changed, the details are drastically different, and yet their futures are still aligned.

Still, out of all the people you could be left behind with, Lydia is a godsend and Stiles is endlessly grateful for all her help, support, and her friendship. He’s just not particularly interested in getting back together, romantically. But she’s comfortable, familiar and in weak moments Stiles realizes he needs her. Needs the closeness, the sense of another person who sees him, and not just what he can provide.

In the morning, when Lydia’s room is bathed in sunlight and the ugly reality of his life stretches before him like and endless road going nowhere, Stiles feels even worse than he normally does. Guilt coils in his stomach, like tape worms gnawing at him from the inside. What had felt nice the night before, is replaced by the notion that he will hurt her. It’s just a question of how long he can keep this up before she realizes. Before she confronts him and he will be forced to either confess and hurt her, or lie and commit to a life with her on entirely wrong terms. Basically, it’s a question of losing her or losing himself, and while the answer should be obvious, it really isn’t. Both options are terrible, and he wants to escape the carefully drawn lines he’s trapped inside.

“Hey.”

Lydia’s voice is slightly raspy and sleep-worn, her hair tussled. She looks young and happy. Stiles feels old and rotten.

“Hey,” he replies, smiling, but it feels false and strained. His voice sounds hollow somehow. Lydia wrinkles her nose slightly. It’s hard to tell if it’s just a morning twitch or a frown. Stiles averts his eyes, concentrating on the ceiling tiles. They need a coat of paint.

Lydia burrows closer to him, like a little kitten snuggling into him for warmth and comfort. One hand snakes across his torso and he can feel her breath dancing across his skin. He squirms uncomfortably, trying to camouflage it into a spastic morning stretch.

“Anything wrong?” Lydia murmurs. Stiles shakes his head, and even if she can’t see it, she surly feels it.

“No,” he replies, reaching out for his phone to check the time. “I - I just need to go.”

“It’s not even six o’clock,” Lydia complains, her finger drawing lazy circles around one nipple. Stiles feels slightly nauseated, mostly sickened by his own cowardice and lies.

“Scott’s on early shift today, I need to get back to Vicky.”

That part’s not a lie, but it only makes things marginally better.

“You could come back, bring her along,” she suggests hopefully. Stiles scrambles for an excuse, but comes up empty. It’ll probably be good for Vicky, anyway. Some outside influence and interactions. Summer can be murder on kids stuck in neighborhoods without anyone to play with and school out.

“Sure,” he say. “We’ll come back.”

Lydia’s smile is radiant and it burns him like radiation.

 

 

***

 

The week drags by in a continuous dance of work, taking care of Vicky, navigating his undefined relationship with Lydia, and walking on eggshells around Scott when he’s around. Stiles hardly has any time to himself, constantly moving from one task to the other, and still everything seems to move in slow motion, the hours dragging on. His body is in constant motion, and yet his mind is perpetually stuck in a wasteland of near-depression. He feels Cora’s departure acutely, loneliness draping over him like a suffocating blanket. If it wasn’t for Vicky he’d probably succumb to indifference, but she keeps him going. Her laughter, her constant stream of chatter and questions grounds him enough to get through the days.

The nights are hardest. Without the distraction of Vicky and chores, Stiles is left alone to ponder the meaninglessness of it all. He loves Vicky, he loves Scott despite the destructive path he’s currently wandering down, and he loves his dad, but loving other people only gets him so far. He’s living, but only in the service of others with next to no freedom to pursue the things he loves. He doodles in his room, and only occasionally does he find the energy and time to try his hand at bigger projects in the corner of the garage he’s carved out for his cans, paint, easels and brushes.

This however is such a night. After Vicky has drifted off to sleep, Stiles is overcome with a rare wave of inspiration. The brush flows freely, lines transforming into shapes, colors mixing in ways he hasn’t managed in months. He’s even humming, bobbing his head along to music inside his head.

“What the _FUCK_?”

Stiles startles, the brush in his head skidding across the canvas, leaving a thick line of rich green in its wake, beautiful in itself but disharmonious to what he’s attempting. Basically, all of tonight’s work is ruined. The promising work of art sits on the easel like a mocking analogy of his life.

Sighing deeply, Stiles drops the brush into one of the many jars, swiveling around to face his visitor. There’s no doubt who’s just entered the garage, only he can’t figure out why Scott’s so mad. Stiles hasn’t seen him since last night when he left to meet up with Isaac.

“Jesus, Scott!”

Stiles wipes his hand on his paint-stained jeans. “Can’t you announce yourself like a normal person? You know, either knock or just say “hey” in a normal voice?”

Scott doesn’t answer at first, simply stalks in, eying the work in progress with unconcealed disdain. It’s not like he hates what Stiles does. He just doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand why he likes it, or how it can possibly lead to anything in the way of income. That’s a sentiment Scott always shared with Stiles’ dad. He dreamed of his sons following in his footsteps. Given how things are now, just the idea of Scott in law enforcement seems ludicrous, but all through middle school that was all they talked about. They played detectives, gathered clues and tried to solve mysteries around the neighborhood, hounding their dad to take them on ride-a-longs.

The interest in mysteries had died down by the time they started high school, but the notion they’d pursue the same line of work stuck with them. It had always been Scott and Stiles. Stiles and Scott. Ever since they met in kindergarten they’d been best friends. When their parents started dating and later married, they became even closer. Brothers not by blood, but by choice. It seemed stronger somehow.

Sharing everything - interests, parents, house, and room kind of became their way of life. So, when Stiles discovered that the doodles he always made in the margins of his notebooks were actually considered good, it became the first thing that divided them. Scott had trouble drawing a straight line and shied away from anything art related. Stiles on the other hand couldn’t get enough.

Which was how he came to know Cora. After that things really changed. Sometimes Stiles suspects Scott resents his art because he sees it as competition. Something that came between them and then brought Cora into the mix.

Watching Scott prowl around the garage like a caged animal, Stiles knows the art thing isn’t really the issue. Not solely. They used to be thick as thieves, but now all they do together is share an address. It’s like a continental drift has taken place, splitting them down the middle and dragging them in opposite directions, leaving a vast ocean of miscommunication between them.

“How can you do this?” Scott spits. “How can you be so selfish to just lock yourself in here, tinkering around with this useless stuff, and leave Vicky alone inside the house?”

“ _I_ leave Vicky alone?” Stiles barks, unable to quell the annoyance that’s been building like hot lava deep underneath a seemingly inactive volcano.

“That’s rich coming from you, Scott! For your information I spend way more time with her than you do. In fact, we haven’t seen you since yesterday. You were supposed to take her to the dentist today. Or did you forget?”

The words doesn’t seem to register with Scott.

“It’s not about quantity of time. It’s about quality of time,” he counters bitingly. “You drag her with you all over town like a rag doll. I know you took her to see Cora, which you know I don’t like.”

“Vicky loves Cora, and Cora adores Vicky. I see no fault in that. Besides, what else am I supposed to do? Leave her alone at home?”

“It’s what you’re doing right now!” Scott gestures wildly towards the house. “What if she woke up, alone in the house? She’d be terrified!”

Stiles snatches up the old baby-call sitting on the table by the paint cans, brandishing in Scott’s face.

“Which is why I have _this_ with me. I’ll hear if she wakes up. Besides, Vicky knows I would never leave and that this is where I am if I’m not in my room. We talk, you see,” he adds viciously.

Scott doesn’t say anything for a while, simply stands in the middle of the cluttered space, surveying Stiles’ art through narrow eyes.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” Stiles asks finally, fatigue seeping through his skin, burrowing inside him like he’s just swallowed a crate of lead. “I know you have the day off. I think you should spend it with Vicky. She misses her dad.”

It’s hard to gauge what Scott is thinking. He looks kind of constipated, but at least he’s not protesting, which Stiles takes to mean he’s considering it at least. In the end he nods, then turns and walks out. Stiles sighs, waits a few minutes then follows suit. His creativity is long gone anyway.

 

***

  
It’s feels weird being here by himself and without Cora. Forbidden in a way. Almost as if he’s trespassing, even if he’s invited. Technically.

He can’t help the slightly raised pulse as he slips the key Cora gave him into the gate at the back of the Hale mansion. He’s been here a thousand times, but never without Cora by his side. As the gate swings open without so much as a squeak, he can’t help but marvel at the decadence of it all. Everything is pristine, white and clean. In comparison Stiles looks like a hobo with his well-worn Adidas, the jeans that used to be black once, and a no-brand navy t-shirt. If the neighbors see him lurking they might call the cops. Stiles has every intention of simply getting his board and leave without delay.

That plan is shot to hell as soon as he lays hands on the board he finds propped up on the patio, just as Cora instructed. It’s almost as if touching it activates some sort of built in safety measure, catching him squarely in the act.

“You know, this is private property.”

Stiles whirls around, probably looking as guilty as a kid caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. He knows there’s no reason for it. The board is his, and he was invited to get it, but that’s just semantics. Especially, when faced with the stern and stubbled visage of Derek Hale.

“I…”

Stiles trails off, finding to his dismay he’s fresh out of words, seemingly stuck with this one letter, a single syllable to utter, and it makes little sense. It truly is a pathetic display.

Derek on the other hand, looks impeccable. Almost as if someone ripped out a spread in GQ Magazine and pasted it onto the Hale patio. Or a GQ photo shoot is taking place on the Hale patio. It certainly looks the part. He’s leaning casually against one of the fake pillars, wearing a simple white t-shirt and khaki shorts, eating what looks like low fat yogurt. Somehow he manages to make it look almost sensual.

“Eloquent, Stilinski,” Derek drawls, licking his spoon and dropping it on the patio table. By now, Stiles has made several attempts at speech, still stuck on “I”.

“Good to see some things haven’t changed,” he drawls, smiling lopsidedly. A bolt of - something courses through Stiles, finally dislodging the knot to his vocal chords.

“Well, we can’t all be famous authors,” Stiles mutters before he can help himself, and immediately feels his cheeks redden. He doesn’t really know Derek near well enough to be making sarcastic jabs like that, but then again he’s never really been much for self-constraint. Thankfully, Derek only laughs, dipping his head in a “touche” manner.

“You still surf then I gather?” he asks with nod towards the board. Stiles only shrugs. He’s not sure the infrequency in which he actually gets out on the water actually qualifies as surfing, or if it’s just an insult to the sport.

“I try,” he settles for, which is true enough, and then averts his eyes. For some reason looking at Derek makes him feel funny. It’s weird. Then again, Stiles is weird, so why bother analyzing it at all.

“What about you?” he counters. “Do you manage to squeeze in some board-time between book signings and feature-length interviews?”

Stiles flashes back to the previous summer when Cora and he had spent an entire night getting high while reading out loud most of Derek’s interviews. For some reason they’d insisted on an exaggerated British accent, making him sound stuck up and pretentious. Which he’s not. Not really, and only compared to Cora who’s near insane and the one Hale child destined to drift from job to job until their dad eventually forces her to take over the family business, whatever that might be. Until then, she’s in open rebellion and still failing to alienate any of her family members. It’s cute.

“It’s hard, but I manage,” Derek replies loftily, sounding almost like an British aristocrat and Stiles snorts.

“Do I even want to know?” Derek asks long-sufferingly, but there’s a mirthful undertone to it.

“Nope.” Stiles shakes his head, feeling almost drunk and it takes him a moment to realize he’s enjoying himself.

“What’cha doing here anyway?”

It’s kind of strange that Derek would choose this moment to arrive when everyone else is away.

Derek shrugs, but a slightly pinched expression flashes across his face. It’s brief and after Stiles is left wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing.

“Writing holiday,” he says. “Change of scenery and no nagging family members. Thought I’d give it a try.”

Stiles feels momentarily jealous. The luxury of not planning your existence around others is alluring. It’s quickly chased away by a mix of shame and guilt. He runs a hand along the board, feeling the fresh wax and suddenly aching to take it out on the water to wash away everything churning in his mind, if only for a moment.

“You going out?” Derek asks, as if he can read minds. Stiles nods. He has the entire morning free and intends to take advantage of every minute.

“Can I tag along?”

Stiles nods. “Sure, old man. Just try not to wipe out every time, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” Derek says solemnly, giving Stiles a little salute. “Hold on, I’m just gonna go grab my stuff. You got room in your car, or should I bring mine?”

Images of Vicky flashes across Stiles’ retinas. Scott had promised he’d spend the entire day with her until his afternoon shift, so in theory it shouldn’t be a problem. Still…

“Better bring your own,” Stiles says, somewhat befuddled that he actually feels kind of bummed about it. “In case I need to make a quick getaway.”

“Sure thing.”

Derek seems unconcerned with this. “I’ll just meet you down at the beach in the usual spot, okay?”

Stiles nods, grabs his board and exits the backyard with little grace, bumping into a bush of hydrangeas on the way, partially tangling his board in the growth. He can swear he hears someone chuckling in the distance, but when he stops to listen all he hears is the wind rustling the trees.

“Get your shit together,” he mumbles distractedly, but alone in the car he’s got no way of hiding that he’s flipping his shit somewhat.

Derek Hale! Is here!

Derek, who hasn’t been back since way before his book was published. He senses there’s a story there, but he won’t prod. That might in turn only lead to awkward questions regarding Stiles’ own situation. Better let private shit rest, and just focus on surfing.

As he drives down to the beach, palms weirdly clammy, it kind of feels like he’s off to tackle a tsunami - equal parts petrified and intrigued, which in his experience basically is a recipe for disaster. Still, the notion of turning around never enters his mind.

  
***

It’s not a disaster.

In fact, it’s the most fun Stiles has had in ages. No offense to Cora, she’s fun and the epitome of positivity, but she’s always hyped and ready to go. It’s like she only has one setting, and keeping up with her is a riot, but leave you wrung out and exhausted after. Stiles finds that Derek offers much of the same, but at a more sedated level.

The worst awkwardness breaks after a they’ve paddled out and hit the first waves. It’s almost as if it floats away with the waves, leaving a kind of easy camaraderie behind. Derek’s shares Cora’s sassy banter, but has a calmness to him that puts Stiles at ease. It’s refreshing, feeling relaxed enough to crack jokes and yet not have to be “on” all the time. As the hours go by, Stiles finds he just as much enjoys the stretches of time when they’re just silent, either drifting aimlessly around on the water atop the boards, or lying stretched out in the sand.

“It’s getting kind of late,” Derek notes, checking his watch. He’s got one of those fancy waterproof sports watches Stiles can hardly afford looking at. “I’m getting kind of hungry. Wanna go grab some burgers or something?”

“Sure. I can eat.” Stiles stretches languidly, catching Derek’s eye who quickly looks away, cheeks a bit rosy. “Exactly how late is it, by the way?”

He’s thinking maybe around noon or so, and balks when Derek point out it’s almost four in the afternoon.

“Shit!”

Stiles hastily gathers his things, set to the tone of an endless line of “shits".

“I’m late. So fucking late, Scott’s gonna kill me! Shit!”

Derek doesn’t say anything, simply helps Stiles collect all of his belongings and carries the board back to his Jeep.

“This was fun,” he remarks casually as Stiles swings himself into the Jeep in a flail of limbs. “We should do this again.”

“Definitely,” Stiles replies distractedly, slamming his door shut and speeding out of the parking lot with a jerky wave. Derek’s left in a cloud of almost black smoke, and it’s not until Stiles’ halfway back home that he realizes they never exchanged numbers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and kind comments after the first chapter ♥♥♥


	3. Chapter 3

“I know, I know, I know,” Stiles chants as he storms into the house, arms held high in surrender. “I know I’m late, I’m so sorry! I’m here now. Did I mention I was sorry?”

“You did, uncle Stiles. Two times.”

Vicky looks amused more than anything, perched at the kitchen table, drawing what looks like horses. It’s vaguely animal-shaped with legs and Stiles thinks the fifth part is supposed to be the tail. She’s been kinda obsessed with My Little Pony lately, so it’s a valid guess.

“Twice? You sure about that? I could’ve sworn it was more.”

She shakes her head, holding up two fingers. “I’m sure. Two times.”

“Shoot. Oh well, might as well add another one then. I’m really, really sorry. Also, those are some sweet horses.”

The blinding smile confirms his guess. At least he’s in good graces with one McCall.

Vicky’s father is a whole other matter.

“Where have you been?”

Scott is thunderous, and for once Stiles has to admit it’s with good reason. Stiles had after all promised to be back in time for Scott’s afternoon shift, and failed spectacularly to comply, having lost track of time while surfing. Scott look ready, apron on and all, but is showing no signs of leaving.

“I was surfing. Lost track of time. No waterproof watch,” he says apologetically, brandishing his old Swatch in proof. “What can I say? Time just flew. I really am terribly sorry.” He frowns, gesturing towards the door. “Aren’t you leaving? Finstock will kill you if you don’t show.”

Scott harrumphes, casts a glance at Vicky who’s deeply concentrated on the horses again, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she struggles to color within the lines. Satisfied she’s occupied he jerks his head in the direction of the living room. Stiles reluctantly follows.

“I had Isaac take my shift. You so owe me a day’s wages. And what’s worth, you’re totally lying to me.”

The accusation hits before Stiles has time to close the door behind him.

“What?” he splutters indignantly. “I’m really not. I’ve been at the beach all day. Cora prepped my old board before she left, and I went out to test it, and just lost track of time.”

“Oh, I know you did. Just not alone.”

Stiles hates that he blushes. Hates how his cheeks heat up at the most inopportune times and for no good reason. Surfing with Derek Hale is not a valid reason for crimson cheeks. He busies himself with unlacing his sneakers, hoping Scott won’t notice. They’re covered in sand after all and he really shouldn’t get that all over the carpets.

“I never said I was alone,” he mumbles with a stiff shrug. “What difference does it make anyway?”

Scott pulls off the apron in one angry tug, throwing it on the couch in clear irritation.

“Isaac saw you, you know.”

The tone is casual, but there’s a calculated iciness to it that doesn’t escape Stiles.

“So?”

Scott rolls his eyes. “So? You know what they say about him, don’t you?”

Stiles assumes _“him”_ means Derek, but has no idea who _“they”_ are, and frankly he couldn’t care less about the local gossip mill. The only thing that matters to him is that he had fun. Spent a few hours forgetting about his shitty life, and feeling vaguely less caged in than normal. It was a welcome reprieve, and he refuses to apologize for it.

“I don’t, actually,” he says tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

Scott snorts. “Now I know you’re just being difficult. Everyone knows about him, and if you hang out with him again people will talk about you too. I just don’t want that kind of thing around Vicky, alright.”

Stiles is too mentally exhausted to even try to decipher what Scott’s on about, and just barely manages to suppress the urge to make a sarcastic remark about how Scott isn’t in any position to make judgment about who should hang around Vicky, seeing as he so rarely does himself. Instead, he walks into the kitchen starting dinner, knowing Scott at least won’t continue the argument in front of his daughter.

By the time the pancakes are served, Scott has left, slamming the door in his wake, and they both breathe a little easier.

 

***

  
Two days later Scott still hasn’t returned. He’s left a somewhat cryptic message about San Diego and someone named Malia, other than that it’s complete radio silence. Vicky doesn’t ask, and Stiles doesn’t tell. They just go about their day as if nothing is amiss.

Stiles covers all of Scott’s shifts at Bobby’s Market which means Vicky spends too much time camped out in the staff room, coloring. Finstock grumbles and complains, claiming he should get paid if his establishment is to function as part-time daycare center, but Stiles catches him sneaking candy and apples to Vicky when he thinks no one is looking, so he’s not too worried. Even so, it’s certainly not the best place for a kid to spend the remnants of her summer, but the sitter is away and Lydia’s got work of her own to tend to.

Basically, they manage. On day two of Scott’s absence Stiles springs for popcorn and they have a Shrek marathon. Vicky falls asleep in the middle of the second one, but Stiles powers through all of them, allowing her to sleep, head nestled on his lap. When the end credit rolls on the last one it’s almost midnight. He carries Vicky to bed, feeling pretty confident she’ll sleep through the night without bad dreams.

Despite the late hour, Stiles feels alert and antsy. Like he’s got pent up energy bubbling, wanting to burst free. There’s no way he’ll be able to sleep yet, that’s apparent. So, Stiles does what he always does. He draws.

He’s out of plain paper, mainly because Vicky’s on a mad horse drawing crusade, and so he’s forced to root through the desk drawers for something else to tide him over. He empties most of them, unearthing old treasures like a stack of Pokemon cards secured by colorful strings, an old Nintendo Gameboy he doubts still works, and the walkie-talkie Cora gave him for Christmas a few years ago. That was around the time his dad was getting worse and money was tight. Stiles had tried to save up for a new phone, and Cora grew tired of waiting. Knowing he’d never accept something as extravagant as a new iPhone she’d opted for a walkie-talkie, claiming she’d found it laying around their garage. Stiles doubted that was true, but they’d been too handy to refuse.

He shakes his head, thinking how Cora had scared the shit out of him a few months back, hissing out insults and threats. Stiles hadn’t known she was back for the summer yet and couldn’t figure out where the creepy wheezing was coming from. She’d laughed for close to an hour when he’d finally realized, cursing her to high heaven.

Finally, he locates an old notebook, already more than half full of drawings and doodles. He recognizes a few of the sketches as stuff he’d done for his portfolio for Cal Arts. Thinking about that still stings, but the pain is getting duller with time. There’s no use in brooding about past decisions, anyway. It was the right thing to do, giving it up. Just too bad the right thing hurts so much.

“Hello?”

A tinny voice crackles to life with a slight echo, and Stiles almost has a conniption.

“Hello? Is this thing even on?”

A series of ear-splitting scratching noises are followed by muttered cursing. Stiles finds he’s grinning wildly, cheeks once again flushed. He _knows_ that voice.

“Hello? Calling Elvis, is anybody out there? Check, check, check. Ehm, Alfa bravo delta, over.”

Derek sounds distracted and kinda bored, his voice lazy and warm. Stiles scampers out of bed, snatching the radio off his desk, clearing his throat before pitching his voice as low as he can.

“This is the US Marine Bravo Team. Nuclear code sequence approved and activated, awaiting command, sir. Over.”

He snickers madly when it goes deadly silent on the other end.

“Eh, abort?”

When Derek finally replies, he sounds alarmed and near hysterics. Stiles bites his lip in glee.

“Missile ready for launch, sir,” he continues, voice cracking into peals of laughter.

“Fuck you, Stilinski!” Derek splutters, clearly peeved. “You shouldn’t mess with old men like that. We’ve got fragile hearts.”

“Serves you right for messing around with Cora’s stuff. You that bored?”

“Yes!”

In fact, Derek sounds desperate. Like he’s at his wits end.

“I’m so incredibly fucking bored. For such a big house it contains little in terms of entertainment. Especially when you’re suffering from writer’s block and are aching for distractions.”

Wow.

Derek is like, sharing private stuff. Something warm and unidentified stirs awake in Stiles’ chest. Not quite butterflies, but certainly something that flutters. Moths, perhaps?

“Working on your next masterpiece, huh?”

“ _Attempting_ to work on,” Derek clarifies with a sigh. “Currently failing in a near epic fashion.”

“Oh, it can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, no. It’s worse. Much worse. Complete manure. Third grade teachers would flinch and weep.”

Stiles glances at his meager bookshelf, easily spotting Derek’s debut novel. He’s read it more than once. Maybe as much as four or five times, in fact. It’s good. Really good.

“I have a hard time believe that. I loved your first book,” he adds almost shyly.

“Really?” Derek sounds honestly surprised. Perplexed even. “You’ve read my book?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And you liked it?”

Stiles grins, amused by how astonished Derek sounds. “No, I didn’t like it,” he teases. “I loved it.”

The line goes silent for a while. Stiles worries if perhaps he laid it on too strong, and is half tempted to go drown himself in the toilet, when Derek comes back on.

“I had fun the other day.”

For some reason these six little words causes Stiles’ heart to burst into erratic pulses. He has no idea what that's all about, but he finds he likes it. 

“Me too.”

The line goes silent again. Stiles has no idea what to say next, feeling insecure and excited all rolled into one. Luckily Derek is clearly a person with higher social functions than Stiles.

“I didn’t get your number. You ran off before I could ask for it. I -,” Derek pauses again. “I don’t have many friends here. I’d love to hang out again. If you want.”

At first Stiles can’t understand why his cheeks hurts so much, but then he realizes he’s grinning, mouth split into a wide smile, his face muscles unused to the exercise.

“I’d like that.”

The conversation flows easily after that, and before he knows it, dawn is nearing, his room slowly bathing in warm rays of sunshine dancing across the walls and drawings. They talk about nothing and everything, falling into a casually banter that reminds Stiles of Cora, only slightly subdued. Mellower, somehow.

When he wakes, Vicky tugging on his hand to come make breakfast, Stiles can’t even remember saying goodbye. Maybe they didn’t. The walkie-talkie lies next to his ear on the pillow, as if he drifted off mid-sentence.

Best yet - he slept without fits or disturbing dreams.

 

 

***

 

  
When Scott finally returns it’s with the woman named Malia in tow. She breezes in like she owns the place, patting Vicky absentmindedly on the head before taking a grand tour of the house. She acts like she’s taking inventory and doesn’t appear overly impressed. Still, she settles down on the sofa like she owns it while Scott runs off to find her something to drink.

Stiles immediately dislikes her, and the feeling seems entirely reciprocated.

“So,” she says, fiddling with the straw of her drink. Stiles is kind of impressed Scott managed to find the ingredients for what looks like a complicated drink, and can’t fathom where he found the little umbrella.

“You’re the one who skirts his baby-sitting duties to hang out with nancies and surfers.”

“And you’re the one keeping Scott away from home, his work responsibilities, and his daughter,” he replies haughtily, his ire rising at such a unfounded accusation. “Charmed to meet you,” he drawls, making no attempts at all to hide his sarcasm.

Her mouth thins and eyes narrow to slits. There’s something almost ruthless about her demeanor that makes Stiles think of poisonous vipers. Stunning to look at with the ability to end you in a split second.

“I can see why Scott’s worried,” Malia comments offhandedly. “Your attitude is hardly fitting around a small child. Victoria’s at an impressionable age and should be shielded against depravities and frivolous behavior.”

Stiles bites his tongue not to laugh, that’s how utterly preposterous every syllable coming out of her mouth is. It’s almost as if she took a wrong turn at Dwight Avenue and walked into a random house, throwing around accusations not fitting the inhabitants. If anyone is frivolous around here, it’s Scott, not him!

“It’s _Vicky_ ,” he presses out between clenched teeth.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Vicky. Not Victoria. She doesn’t like it.”

Malia shrugs. “Victoria is a perfectly nice name. I always found nick names weird habit and undignified. I’ve encouraged Scott to call her by her given name, and he agrees. It sends a more powerful message, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re full of shit, is what I think. How long have you known Scott exactly? 48 hours? Hardly enough to make you an expert.”

“I know he’s unhappy, and his home life is clearly to blame for that. He’s told me all about how you drag everyone around you down with your moping and complaining. He needs a positive influence in his life given what he’s been through.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, blood boiling under his skin.

“His girlfriend died,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “The mother of his child and love of his life was killed. Of course he’s unhappy! He’s not gonna find happiness at the bottom of a bottle or in the arms of random girls. I’ve been telling him that for months, but he hardly stands still long enough to -”

His tirade is interrupted by the doorbell. Malia stands, smoothing down her dress, flicking her hair. Out in the hallway Stiles hears voices and the clink of bottles. Next, the door swings open and Scott walks through, arm wrapped around Isaac’s shoulders. Behind them Stiles makes out a bunch of other acquaintances from high school, all of which have forgone college to stay home and work odd jobs.

“What’s going on?”

He grabs hold of Scott, steering him towards the kitchen, but it’s already crowded with people trying to cram their bottles and cans into the fridge.

“Oh, nothing much,” Scott murmurs distractedly,fist bumping some random dude over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles grabs his hand, forcing his attention back on him.

“You can’t seriously be throwing a party now? It’s Wednesday!”

“Malia’s new in town. I want her to meet my friends. You know, feel welcome and included.”

He opens the can of beer in his hands, taking a sip like this is the most logical thing in the world and Stiles is being obtuse and difficult to question it.

“How about prioritizing making your daughter feel welcome and included?” he snarls. Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of Vicky, hovering uncertainly by the kitchen door, clearly confused about the influx of people.

“She’ll be alright,” he brushes off casually. “You’ll make sure she gets to bed, right?”

Out in the living room something guitar-heavy blares to life at a decibel level far exceeding any recommended limit. Vicky winces, clasping her tiny hands over her ears, eyes seeking out Stiles’ between the throng of bodies in the room.

“Yeah,” Stiles spits, spinning around. “I’ll get her to bed. Just not here.”

He scoops up Vicky, darts into his room to get a bag, stuffing a toothbrush, a clean shirt and his notebook into it. He finds similar supplies in Vicky’s room and leaves, slamming the door behind him, though no one notices. Outside the music mutes, fading into a throbbing bass.

“Where are we going, Uncle Stiles?” Vicky asks, casting a confused look back at the house.

“Lydia,” he replies buckling her in. He’s so fucking mad! Of all the idiotic things Scott has done since Allison died, this somehow managed to surpass it all. If he stays there one more moment, he’s not sure what he will do. Certainly nothing he wants Vicky to witness, anyway. She’s the real victim in all of this, and he can’t understand how Scott seems to miss this point entirely.

“Yay!” Vicky exclaims, jumping up and down in her seat in excitement. “Aunt Lydia always has cookies. Do you think I can have a cookie?”

Stiles climbs into the Jeep, meeting her eyes in the rear view mirror. “Sure kiddo. If Aunt Lydia has cookies, you can have one before bed. But just one.”

“We’re having a sleepover?”

Stiles nods and Vicky waves her hands around in glee. At least someone’s happy, he muses sadly as he pulls away from the curb. He’s been trying to pluck up the courage to explain to Lydia how he thinks they should just be friends, but every time they spend time together the words stick to his throat, like tiny insects stuck to flypaper.

When he pulls into her driveway and notices her car’s not there, he’s equally disappointed and relieved. He calls her, and after about a minute of listening impatiently to it ringing, she picks up, voice harried.

“Stiles? Please, make it quick. I’m at work and we’re horribly understaffed! I think Tina’s about to have nervous breakdown.”

“Oh, right.” He rubs his eyes tiredly. “When do you reckon you’ll be home?”

He can hear music, chatter and the clink of glasses in the background.

“Honestly? Unless they can scrounge up more waitstaff I think I’ll have to stay until closing. Maybe around 2:30 if I’m lucky. Why?”

“Nothing important,” he says hurriedly. Lydia sounds stressed enough as it is, he refuses to add to it by telling her about the situation. He’ll think of something.

“Just wondered if you wanted to hang. Another night, then.”

“That’ll be great,” she says, sounding genuinely happy. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”

She hangs up before he manages to say anything else. They sit in silence for a while.

“I’m hungry.”

Vicky is squirming in her seat, bottom lip sticking out in a pout that Stiles knows from experience means business.

“Me too, pumpkin,” he says, shifting the car into reverse, backing out into the street again. He starts driving, allowing his mind to go deliberately blank so not to second-guess the direction he sets.

 

 

***

 

  
Derek’s face morphs seamlessly from stunned, via concerned, and lands on a blinding grin in the span of a split second. If Stiles hadn’t been studying his face in excruciating detail he might have missed it. If Derek finds the sight of Stiles and a wide-eyed four-year old on his doorstep at eight in the evening odd, he does a great job of hiding it.

“Well, hello there,” he says kindly, addressing Vicky with a warm smile. She cocks her head tugging on one of her pig-tails.

“Who are you?” she asks bluntly. Derek laughs, gesturing them inside. Stiles shrugs apologetically, though he’s smiling too. Vicky’s childlike bluntness usually has that effect on him.

“I’m Derek. I’m a friend of Stiles.”

“I’ve never seen you before. Are you a new friend?” she asks, shrugging off her little backpack.

“Sort of. We used to be friends a while back. Then I moved away and we haven’t seen each other in a while.”

She regards him for a moment before craning her neck to look behind him into the house. “I’m hungry,” she announces.

Derek clasps his hands together. “Well, what a wonderful coincident. I was just about to make dinner. Would you two like to join me?”

“We would,” Vicky says primly, starting down the hall like she owns the place. “I want spaghetti”, she orders, like Derek’s the waiter at a restaurant and not their host.

“Oh, wow. I don’t think I have the ingredients for that.” Derek strides into the kitchen to check the cupboards and fridge, shaking his head when he comes up empty handed. “I only have a couple of steaks -”

“That’ll be fine,” says Stiles hurriedly, but Vicky’s pouty bottom lip is rearing it’s ugly head again. Derek seems to sense the danger and quickly grabs the keys on the counter.

“Tell you what, princess. I’ll just make a quick trip to the store to get what we need and then we’ll make the most delicious spaghetti ever. You’ll help me, right? To make sure it’s just the way you like it.”

Vicky lights up, nodding furiously.

“You don’t have to-” Stiles begins, but Derek simply lays a hand on his shoulder in passing, squeezing it reassuringly. For some reason Stiles feels the touch all the way down to his toes.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he says warmly, and Stiles finds he believes him.

“I like him,” Vicky announces, plumping down into a plush armchair with loads of comfortable looking pillows, immediately rearranging them to her liking. Stiles smiles, surprised by how much her approval means to him.

 

 

***

 

  
A couple of hours later the Hale kitchen looks like a war zone. There’s tomato sauce on most of the counters, and stray bits of spaghetti cling to some of the kitchen cupboards, but Derek doesn’t seem to notice or care. Vicky’s been a very enthusiastic assistant chef as the two of them lord over pots and pans, adding spices and tasting the sauce until Vicky deems it perfection. Stiles is relegated to setting the table, and Vicky insists they need candles and napkins, which Derek procures after some searching.

Now, Vicky is sleeping soundly, curled into the armchair she’s claimed as her domain and throne, burrowed between the pillows and covered by a soft blanket Derek magicked out from one of the guest rooms down the hall.

It’s a warm and humid night and Derek and Stiles are sprawled on two chaise lounges outside on the patio. Stiles keeps throwing glances into the house from time to time, but he needn’t worry. Vicky is down for the count, stuffed to bursting with spaghetti and ice cream.

They’re sitting in companionable silence, and Stiles is relieved to notice he’s starting to relax again. Every nerve, every muscle fiber has been taught with anger since storming out of the house with Vicky, and he feels genuinely exhausted. Like he’s run a marathon wearing leaden-down boots. Now that the worst of it has lifted, he’s trapped in a sort of numb stasis.

Derek’s good like that. He doesn’t prod and poke the way Cora would. Derek’s sister wouldn’t allowed time to brood. Instead, she’d force him out of his shell, get him slightly drunk and convince him to dance around the room in his underwear belting Fallout Boy lyrics at the top of his lungs (he knows from experience). It's fun and all, but the effect always wears off just as soon as his buzz does. In some ways, it almost leaves him feeling worse. As if the momentary amusement sparks muscle memory of how things used to be and the harsh contrast to reality becomes vaster somehow. 

Stiles is tired of this endless wheel of ups and downs. He wants to break the wheel. Smash it into splinters no bigger than tooth picks, but he lacks the tools, the will, and means to do it. And so the wheel keeps on spinning, faster and faster downhill, the final crash unavoidable. It’s just a matter of time.

He really is a sad, depressed fuck.

“So,” Derek says eventually. He’s twirling the glass of wine between surprisingly soft looking fingers. Stiles averts his eyes, concentrating on his own glass. He usually sticks to beer, never really having the money or knowledge to get a good wine. Derek obviously does,though. It’s really good, and not just the taste. It dulls the edge of Stiles’ anger, too.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

He knows playing dumb is futile. There’s no way he’s fooling Derek into thinking everything is alright and this was just a convenient social call. Who shows up at near strangers’ houses at eight in the evening with a four-year old in tow without a good reason?

“Stiles…”

Derek doesn’t say anything beyond his name. Simply lets his tone convey it all. Weirdly, Stiles finds he sort of wants to talk about it. That never happens. Not even with Lydia. Maybe there’s something in the wine?

“Scott-” he begins, pausing, searching for the right words until he realizes there are none. There’s just the facts and no amount of well-picked words and phrasings will make it better.

“Scott’s not doing so good,” he settles on. Derek nods.

“I heard about Allison. That must have been awful.”

Stiles bites his lip, giving the tiniest jerk of his head. Awful is one word for it, and like the rest, not sufficient to encompass the scope of it all. But it’s a start.

“Yeah. It was terrible. One moment Scott and Allison are as happy as clams. They were planning on getting married. Did you know that?”

Derek shakes his head, eyes sad.

“It was all they talked about. They both wanted a beach wedding. To be wed under an arch made of surfboards and Vicky would be the flower girl. Allison and Vicky had their dresses picked out and all. Vicky still has hers. It hangs in her closet and I sometimes catch her, hiding away inside, clutching the dress like it’s the last tether she has to a future ripped away from her.”

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s crying until tears drip from his face down on his hand. He wipes them away self-consciously, but Derek makes no comment. Simply leans over to refill Stiles’ glass, patting him reassuringly on the arm.

“It wasn’t just Allison who died that day,” he continues angrily, voice quivering slightly. “Scott never recovered. I remember waiting in the hospital for hours, praying she’d come out of the surgery alright. We knew the odds were slim. The doctor was honest about that, but you know how it is. You always cling to hope until it’s gone. Scott just sort of crumpled when we got the news. That the damage from the crash was too severe. They couldn’t save her. He sank to the floor, silently. No tears, no screams, no drama.”

He shudders at the memory. It was the most eerie display he’s ever witnessed. Like everything that made Scott Scott had been sucked out of him the moment Allison was declared dead. As if he was left soulless, or something. Sucked dry by a Dementor, only a poorly functioning shell left behind.

“I tried talking to him, moving him, but he wouldn’t budge. Eventually, after Lydia had taken Vicky home, and no one else was left, he got up and just walked out. Simple as that. I didn’t see him again for three days.”

Stiles takes a generous gulp of the wine, feeling it warm his throat before branching off to other areas of his anatomy. Cheeks, chest, eyes, toes.

“He didn’t even go to her funeral. It was left up to Lydia and me to explain to Vicky that her mom wouldn’t ever come home again, which was hard enough. It was harder still coming up with excuses for why her dad hardly spoke to her, seldom were home and when he was, he simply sat in his favorite chair, watching sports.”

“People deal with loss in different ways,” Derek offers. Stiles snorts.

“Yeah, I know that. I’ve seen grief, heard dad talk about it countless times, how that’s one of the hardest part of being a cop. Telling someone one of their loved ones is dead is painful. It’s made worse by not knowing how they’ll react. I think I’d understand it more if it was anger, depression or melancholy of some sort. Instead, he’s a whole other person who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone. All he does is party, screw around and sleep.”

“Sounds to me like he’s put up a shield,” says Derek softly. “Like he’s terrified of being hurt like that again, so he’s shut off his emotions.”

Stiles shrugs. “Maybe. Probably. He might be shielding himself, but he sure as hell’s not doing Vicky any good by it. I just wish he’d talk to someone about it. If he like, I dunno, honestly made an effort to change, heal, deal - whatever. Then I think it would be easier to accept the situation. If I could see he was trying, it would all be worth it somehow.”

“Have you told him this?”

Stiles snorts. “If only I could get him to listen for five seconds. He’s hardly home, and when he is, he picks stupid fights, and I’m too exhausted, too tired, and too frustrated to shut them down.”

“What was it this time?”

“A girl. And a party. He came back after two days with a woman I’ve never seen or heard about, and promptly threw a party. I had the choice between fleeing the scene and premeditated homicide.”

“You chose wisely,” Derek comments sensibly. It’s not even all that funny, but Stiles laughs and laughs and laughs, until tears once again are streaming down his cheeks, but this time for entirely different reasons.

“I should go,” he says after the chortles and giggles have died down. He’s curled on his side, one hand tucked under his head like a pillow. Derek mimics him so they’re facing each other. It’s oddly intimate.

“You can stay,” he offers. “Vicky’s sleeping. It’ll be a shame to wake her now. Besides, what’s the chance the party has died down by now?”

“None.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Stiles smiles, eyes getting heavy. Time sort of slows down, and he’s in that weird limbo phase before sleep finally sets in, when Derek’s voice filters into his ears. It takes a few moments for him to register the question.

“Whatever happened to Cal Arts?”

“Life,” Stiles mumbles, feeling all talked out for one night. “Death. Responsibilities. You know… and all that jazz.”

He thinks maybe Derek laughs softly, or it might just be the sound of waves teasing the beach sand in the background. He’s drifting, slowly being pulled into sleep even if he doesn’t want to. It’s nice here. Safe in a way he only has a distant memory of. Comfortable, and for some bizarre reason, right.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles wakes to the distant cries of seagulls, the smell of salt and seaweed heavy in the air. It’s undeniably morning, but the sun isn’t high enough on the sky yet to reach this spot on the patio. He’s curled up on the chaise lounge, something soft and musky draped over him. Stiles inhales deeply, coating his nostrils with the undeniable smell of Derek. Instinctively, he burrows into it, like a purring kitten.

Then, before he has time to properly examine why the scent of his best friend’s brother is making his heart thud a little faster, it all comes crashing back. Scott’s return. The impromptu and inappropriate party. Showing up unannounced on Derek’s doorstep. Making spaghetti. Making a mess with spaghetti. Talking into the late night. Falling asleep.

_Vicky_!

A claw grips Stiles’ chest and he’s up and across the patio in a flash, wrenching the sliding door open with too much force, no grace and mounting panic, more or less falling inside. He scans the room, heart beating wildly when he finds the armchair empty, no sign of Vicky anywhere.

He staggers into the hallway, but there’s no sign of anyone. Vicky’s shoes and backpack are still there, which is something, but he’ll not rest easy until he knows she’s safe and okay. Once the worst of the ringing in his ears subsides, Stiles makes out the low hum of voices and music coming from the adjoining room, which Stiles knows houses a giant flat screen and a huge couch roughly the size of Stiles’ room. When he pokes his head in, he finds a display that moves him in ways he’s hard pressed to put into words.

So, he doesn’t. He draws it.

Without making his presence known, Stiles tiptoes back for his bag, fetching the notebook and his pens and pencils. He creeps back into the lounge, setting up in a chair by the door. He still has reasonably good view of the two people curled up under a massive blanket, a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches between them.

“Can we watch The Lion King next?” Vicky asks.

Her eyes are glued to the screen, watching with rapt attention as Belle is whisked around the grand ballroom by the Beast. They make a striking duo, both the pair on and off screen. Stiles can see Vicky’s getting crumbs everywhere, but Derek doesn’t seem to notice or care. He’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That depends, Princess.”

“On what?” she says, words muffled by food.

“On what your Uncle Stiles has planned for the day.”

“He’s working later. Can I stay here with you in the meantime? I don’t wanna go home,” she adds in a small voice.

Stiles’ hand pauses, chest aching. Vicky never really talks about this stuff. Probably because Stiles tries his best to pretend Scott’s not a mess in an effort to shield her from the worst of it. She’s smart, though. Too smart, perhaps.

“You don’t want to spend time with your dad?” Derek asks.

Vicky shrugs. “Sort of. It’s just -”. She scrunches her nose slightly. “I miss my dad. Just, not the way he is now.” She pauses again. “I miss him how he was when mom was here. And I miss mom.”

“That’s understandable,” says Derek, and his voice is so full of warmth, and with no awkwardness at all. Every time Stiles tries to talk to Vicky about Allison, or Scott for that matter, he always ends up so upset himself, he just knows he’s not being any kind of help to her. So, mostly they avoid the topic and Stiles does his best so show her in all the ways he can that she’s loved, that he’ll always be there for her, no matter what. Witnessing this, though, it’s clear that she needs more.

“Will my real dad ever come back?”

If it had only been that easy, Stiles muses wistfully. That Scott was simply replaced by his evil twin, and they only needed to rescue him from a musty dungeon. Somehow, that seems much more manageable.

“He’s still your real dad, honey. He’s just hiding it at the moment. It’s because he misses your mom. I really hope he finds a way to come back to you soon.”

“Me, too,” she whispers.

Stiles continues to draw. Derek and Vicky grow silent again, attention back on the movie. It’s not until the end credit rolls they notice him there. Derek climbs out from underneath the blanket, gathering their plates and cups and turns to see Stiles sitting with the notebook in his lap. His expression is hard to read from this distance, but Stiles waves a little and Derek’s face splits into a blinding smile.

“Been there long?”

“A while,” Stiles answers, his voice still scratchy from sleep and disuse. Vicky squeals when she spots him, bouncing over holding no less than three DVDs in her small hands.

“Look, Uncle Stiles! They have ALL the Disney movies! Derek said I could watch them all whenever I want to. Isn’t he the best?!”

“Sure, pumpkin, he’s a gem,” says Stiles dryly, making sure Derek hears the air quotes in his voice. Derek cuffs him on the back of his head as he breezes past him into the kitchen. He cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Stiles’ drawing but he expertly hides it.

“Yes, he is!” Vicky bounces up and down next to Stiles like she’s in a mosh-pit, tugging on his sleeve. “A gem! I don’t know what that means, but it sounds cool, and I’ve decided Derek is cool. Old, but cool. Now, help me find The Lion King.”

“You can’t stay here all day watching movies.”

“Why not?” she whines, eyes wide in that doe-eyed Bambi look Stiles is powerless to resist most of the time.

“I need to go to work in a bit, that’s why.”

Vicky flings herself dramatically back onto the couch, arms crossed like a little diva.

“Can’t she at least start the movie?”

Derek has materialized in the doorway, wearing an apron. “You haven’t eaten anything yet. I have left-over pancake batter from earlier. I thought I could make you some.”

Stiles can’t remember the last time someone made him pancakes. It was probably Melissa. Or Allison. It’s kind of sad he can’t recall exactly, but the offer is too tempting to pass. He nods, then goes to locate the Lion King. Vicky does a victory lap around the table, singing “Hakuna Matata” at the top of her lungs.

The pancakes are really good. The company is even better, which does speak highly of Derek. Stiles is astonished they get along so well. They never really used to hang out all that much, not just the two of them at any rate. Derek was just Cora’s older brother, someone who was around at times, sometimes came surfing with them, but usually just stayed in the background or periphery. Now, he feels like the center of Stiles’ life, which is weird, frightening, confusing and incredible all rolled into one.

“So, what really happened to Cal Arts?” Derek asks, blowing on the steaming coffee in his cup before taking a tentative sip. Stiles pauses mid-chew, bits of maple syrup running down his chin. Derek wordlessly hands him a napkin, never breaking eye-contact.

“I deferred for a semester when dad got worse,” Stiles admits, squirming a bit.

It’s not like he can avoid talking about it forever, and certainly not with Derek who seems determined to break down all of his carefully constructed walls, brick by brick.

Besides, Derek’s one of the few to really ask about this. To question why he gave up his carefully constructed plan for the future. Scott doesn’t really know. When Stiles didn’t leave for college, he’d just assumed his scholarship fell through, and Stiles hadn’t corrected him. It had seemed easier somehow. This was before everything with Melissa and Allison. If Scott had known he would have forced him to go. He would’ve insisted they’d be more than capable to take care of his dad in his absence.

A lie by omission seemed a small price to pay. Stiles simply couldn’t stomach leaving his dad, and in hindsight it was probably the best choice anyway. If he’d started Cal Arts, he’d been forced to leave anyway, either when Melissa got sick or certainly when Allison was killed. This way, Stiles doesn’t really know what he’s missing out on. He’s had enough of that in his life - grieving and missing things ripped away from him…

This is how he copes. By telling himself it would’ve been worse to give it up halfway through, than to never have it at all. It still hurts, though, but Stiles pushes that down. He hadn’t fooled Lydia, of course. She’d understood, and hasn’t mentioned it since, too aware of how much it cost him and how the sacrifice still feels like an open wound.

“Back then I still had hope he’d get better. The plan was to just help him get back on his feet, and then start after Christmas. Only, he didn’t get better, not at all. To make things worse, Melissa got sick and one semester turned into two. Cancer,” he offers and Derek’s face falls. “It was too aggressive. Too far gone when it was discovered. She died just two months before Allison.”

He sighs deeply, slumping further into the chair, pancakes forgotten.

“I guess that’s why I can’t really fault Scott anything. It’s why I award him so much leeway, even if he’s acting like a douche. It was hard enough for me when Melissa passed away. She’d been my step mom since I was eight and it nearly did me in. She was Scott’s mom, and they were incredibly close. He was a wreck, but he had Ally and Vicky to help him cope. Then, with Allison’s accident…”

He trails off.

“Cal Arts didn’t even register after that. With Allison and Melissa gone, and dad’s mind slipping further and further by the day, I just couldn’t leave. I couldn’t abandon Scott or Vicky.”

Derek doesn’t say anything for a while. Simply clears the table and pours Stiles a cup of coffee, topping off his own.

“I think that’s admirable,” he offers after a while. “You’ve got a bigger heart than most, Stiles Stilinski. Just-”

He hesitates, licking his lips. Stiles squirms, feeling almost naked under his stare.

“Just don’t forget yourself in all of this. If you live only for others, especially when they don’t really offer much in return - and I’m not talking about Vicky,” he adds with a raised finger when Stiles starts to protest. “I know you love that girl like your own. Everyone can see that. Legally, though, she’s Scott’s responsibility and this situation can’t really go on. Not indefinitely. You will end up hating each other and the one who suffers the most is Vicky.”

“I know.”

It’s not exactly rocket science, but it’s hard in another and more emotional way.

Derek suddenly clasps his hands together, plastering on a wide grin, effectively segueing away from the heavy topic, almost as if his inner radar could sense it was time to ease up on the personal questions. Stiles feels relieved for about three seconds. Then he realizes Derek’s gesturing towards the crumpled notebook next to him.

“Okay Picasso, let’s see it!”

Stiles shakes his head vehemently.

“No fucking way!”

He snatches it away so that Derek’s wandering hand falls on nothing but marble counter-top.

“Come on,” he needles, inching around the kitchen island. “You used to tag our garage if I recall correctly. Your doodles were everywhere. You were never shy about it before.”

“ _Doodles_?”

Derek nods innocently. “What else should I call it? It was blobs of paint.”

“Picasso’s paintings are also that - blobs of paint,” Stiles counters saucily. Derek snorts.

“You don’t aim low, do you? Comparing yourself to Picasso? Bold.”

Stiles smiles innocently. “No, actually. You called me Picasso. You’ve seen my blobs of paint, and obviously made the connection. Also, your garage mural is one of a kind. One day it will be worth a fortune.”

“Yeah, easily auctioned off. You just need to buy the property along with it - which begs the question - is it the mural or the house that really drives the price?”

“Rude. Remind me never to show you anything, ever again.”

Derek laughs, shaking his head. Then his face turns serious again.

“I’d really love to see it.”

Stiles is spared further explanations for why he’s hesitant to show off the contents of his notebook when Vicky barrels into the room, cheeks rosy, eyes awash with tears.

“He killed him! Scar killed Mufasa!”

“Oh dear,” Stiles mutters, casting a slightly amused look over his shoulder at Derek. “This always happens,” he explains. “She puts on the waterworks in hopes of getting a treat of sorts.”

“Cookies help with tears,” she offers solemnly, like it’s an old proverb everyone knows. Derek looks absolutely smitten.

“It sure does,” he says and magics a pack of Oreos out of a drawer.

“Great,” Stiles mutters. “Now, she’ll never want to leave.”

He can’t say he blames her.

 

  
***

 

 

Stiles drops Vicky off at the sitter a few hours later, then leaves directly for his shift at Bobby’s Market. Finstock is in a rare mood, all smiles showing too much teeth, and desperately trying to charm old ladies into buying soon to be expired cans of tuna. Aside from a pack of boys, clearly on a dare, exploding several bags of flour, it’s a relatively slow shift.

Stiles picks up Vicky on his way home and she keeps up a continuous stream of chatter without much input from him. It’s mostly about Disney movies, the cat her sitter has just gotten, and the seemingly endless supply of cookies the Hale kitchen have. Stiles lets her prattle on, hoping she’ll be tired of the topic once they’re home. Somehow he just knows Scott won’t like Vicky spending time at Derek’s.

He braces himself as they walk up to the house, expecting to find it in wild disarray. Instead, they find it spotless, the kitchen counters practically gleaming, and a pot of something sweet-smelling puttering on the stove.

“Ah, there you are.”

Malia pads into the kitchen wearing one of Scott’s shirts and little else. Her hair is piled at the top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils framing her face. Without make-up she looks much nicer in Stiles’ opinion. Not that it makes up for the poor impression he got of her the night before. Truthfully, he was hoping she’d be long gone by now. Scott’s conquests rarely lasts long these days.

“You hungry?” she asks, plucking Vicky’s backpack off her and setting it by the door. “I’ve made chicken soup,” she says gesturing at the pot. If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say she was nervous.

“Do you like chicken soup, sweetie?” she inquires, smiling down at Vicky. “We didn’t get to talk much yesterday. I’m Malia. I’m a friend of your dad’s.”

“Hi,” she says shyly, inching behind Stiles’ legs, clutching them tightly. “I like cookies better,” she adds, eying the bowl Malia prepares with ill-concealed suspicion. Stiles can’t say as he blames her. He half expects it to be seasoned with strychnine.

“Who doesn’t,” she replies conspiratorially, and that seems to break some of the ice.

  
When the plates are cleared away, Vicky runs off to her room, blabbering about lions and monkeys. Stiles still doesn’t know what to make of the strange woman who somehow seems so have made herself at home here. Yesterday, she’d appeared haughty and cruel, setting off every alarm bell. Now, however she’s much softer, and is clearly making an effort to be nice. Even more surprising, it seems genuine.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Malia suddenly blurts, as if she’s somehow read his mind. She’s by the fridge offering Stiles a beer. He accepts it gratefully, sensing he’ll need something to ease his nerves if they’re to have a heart to heart.

“I’m sorry,” she continues, hopping up on the counter. Stiles has to avert his eyes. She’s showing entirely too much leg for someone who’s maybe sort of Scott’s girlfriend. One night stand? Whatever.

“I think I grossly misjudged you,” Malia continues, undeterred by Stiles’ silence. “I got to talking with some of your friends last night, and quickly realized Scott’s been keeping some key factors out of the narrative. Some hugely important ones, in fact.”

The last bit is said between clenched teeth, almost as if she’s doing her best to control her anger. Stiles can relate.

“Where is Scott?” Stiles asks curiously.

“Sleeping.” Malia smiles indulgently. “He drank way too much, but I guess you’re familiar with that, huh?”

Stiles shrugs. Malia sighs.

“I’ve seen him around the past few months, always the life of the party. Handsome, charming, the works. We’ve been talking on and off, never anything more than that, but I must admit he had me charmed. I tagged along on the trip with Isaac, Scott and a few others to San Diego. Things… escalated.”

Stiles snorts. That sure does sound like post-Allison Scott. Still, this is the first time he’s brought any of the conquests home.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to do about this,” Malia admits, gesturing wildly, probably in an attempt to describe the whole mess of a situation. “I really like him, but I see now that there’s some major issues that needs to be worked on.”

She’s silent for a while, nursing her beer.

“I think I’m doing a poor job of it, but I’m trying to apologize. I hope we can start fresh. Also, I wanted to ask if he’s worth it.”

The question takes Stiles aback. Aside from him no one has seemed to want to help Scott deal with the demons plaguing him. Isaac and the rest of the high school gang have welcomed party-Scott back with open arms, having lost him back when Allison got pregnant. If this woman with the big eyes and legs that goes on for miles is willing to give it a shot, then Stiles will back her every step of the way, piss-poor first impressions be damned.

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation, completely and utterly sincere. “He is. If you want to help…”

He trails off, feeling tears pressing at his eyes again. God, this is starting to become a habit lately.

“Please,” he pleads, voice raw. “Please. He needs more than I can give. If you can - if we can… He deserves it. She deserves it.”

Malia’s eyes are glassy too, and when she nods Stiles marvels that the earth doesn’t shift, it’s such a monumental moment.

 

 

***

 

 

Malia more or less moves in, and things get slightly better. Scott makes more of an effort not to slip into his many moods, but he doesn’t always succeed. Then again, Rome wasn’t built in one day, and Stiles takes whatever little improvements he can get.

He’s still not overly interested in spending time with Vicky, though, which means she mostly falls to Stiles. Not that he minds. The sitter is more available now that summer’s coming to an end, which means he won’t have to drag her with him to work.

On days when he has a late shift or a rare day off, he mostly spends his time with Derek. They surf, play video games, goes out to eat and generally just hang out much like he does with Cora. Only with decidedly less booze and partying. He finds he doesn’t much mind.

After the night when Stiles came over with Vicky, there hasn’t really been any deep conversations. It’s all light banter, jokes, and meaningless chatter, and yet at the same time it’s so much more. Stiles feels at ease in a way he hasn’t since his dad was well and they spent lazy afternoon’s fishing down by the pier. His dad always used to say you’d found a real friend when you could just around and not speak.

The silent moments with Derek aren’t awkward or tense.

Or, that’s not entirely true. Sometimes, Stiles finds Derek looking at him in a certain way that causes something ticklish in his stomach. It never lasts long, though, mostly chased away by an insult or a suggestion of watching a movie or play a game.

  
About two weeks after Malia moved in, she gently suggests Stiles take Vicky out for the evening. She wants to try to have a serious talk with Scott, which makes her a braver woman than most.

Derek is quick to offer a sleep-over, and it takes a showing of The Little Mermaid, Aladdin and the first half of Brave before Vicky finally succumbs to sleep. Something tugs in Stiles as he watches Derek gently pick her up and carry her to one of the guest rooms. Vicky had picked it out herself earlier in the evening after a thorough inspection of all the alternatives. In the end she chose the one with the pink bedspread. No one was surprised.

When he returns, Derek heads straight for the kitchen, opening a bottle of red wine. He holds it up in silent offer and Stiles nods. He finds he really likes it. He’s never been much of wine drinker, but then again when the only wine you’ve tasted is the cheapest ones from the corner store, it is hard to develop a fine pallet. He realizes Derek’s spoiling him, and knows he can’t afford to buy nice wines when he leaves, and yet he accepts it without question. Allows himself a little luxury, even if it’s just for a short period.

Derek hands him the glass with a warm half-smile, settling down on the other end of the sofa, the space between them littered with the nest of pillows and blankets Vicky had occupied.

“A toast to Princess Vicky. She’s truly amazing,” Derek says, raising his glass in salute. Stiles mimics him, grinning proudly.

“She really is.”

Derek turns off the TV and with a few taps of another remote, soft music fills the room pleasantly. When he sets the remote down, his hand hovers for a moment, undecided, over Stiles’ notebook lying on the table. It’s always with him, never too far off, in case the need or the right motive strikes.

Stiles feels his pulse quicken, a well of contrasting emotions battling for dominance. Part of him wants to snatch it away, another part yearns to share it with someone. In the end, he jerks his head minutely, giving Derek his blessing. He in turn picks it up almost reverently, settling back into the cushions before turning to the first page.

Stiles finds he can’t really look at him. He’s too scared of what he might see, how Derek will react. He feels naked somehow, and he’s not sure it was the right thing to do. He scoots closer to the edge of the sofa, ready to bolt if it gets too much.

“Oh, man. Stiles, these are - these are really good.”

Derek sounds like he really means it. Stiles can hear him turn another page, then pauses for a long while. He steals a glance out the corner of his eye, watching Derek take in the motive.

“This was the morning when you both spent the night,” he says, gesturing to the image on the paper. Stiles only nods.

“It’s - it’s magical. It’s like you captured the entire atmosphere of that moment. Vicky’s happiness, my content. It’s -.”

He turns to Stiles, pride practically radiating off him. “It’s stunning.”

Stiles’ cheeks blossom in hues of deep burgundy. He hurries to take a sip of his wine, shrugging in a mock-casual way.

“No, don’t do that,” Derek chides. “Don’t shrug when you get a compliment. You’re incredible talented. Own it.”

This just causes Stiles even more discomfort, and he doesn’t respond. Honestly, he doesn’t know how. Derek seems engrossed in the notebook, turning each page reverentially, finally stopping at one. Stiles chances a look at it and sees it is the one about Vicky.

“Tell me about this one,” Derek asks gently, his voice not pitying, but there’s enough sympathy there to blanket half of California.

“Eh,” he starts choppily, never really having to comment on any of his work before.

“It’s how I see Vicky sometimes.”

He smooths the page down with a finger, stopping by the small figure on one side, slumped, sad. Hurtling towards her is a maelstrom of words, curses, demands, all in hard black lines, frightening and demanding. She’s backed into a wall, clutching her ever present rabbit. Other than that her, the surroundings are bare.

“She’s mostly talked at, not to. Yelled at is perhaps more accurate. Scott hardly pays her any attention and when he does, it’s usually to demand chores or berate her. He never used to be like that. This all changed when Allison died, and I guess in many ways she looks so much like her, it’s a constant reminder. Like her presence reopens his wounds over and over again. Only, she doesn’t get that. Doesn’t understand why he’s mad at her.”

“This is only part of her world, though,” Derek offers, still enthralled by the drawing. “You show her love. Unconditional love. She feels safe with you.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m not her dad, though.”

“Blood isn’t everything,” Derek murmurs. “Didn’t you say Malia might be helping?”

Stiles’ shrugs, taking another sip of wine. He feels flushed and off-kilter.

“She’s trying. Who knows if it’ll help or how long it will take.”

“Cal Arts is missing out.”

Derek hands the notebook back to Stiles, holding his gaze. When he reaches for it, their fingers brush, electricity jolting through his entire body.

“I guess it will have to make do without me,” he jokes half-heartedly in an effort to ignore the sensation. He can tell that Derek felt it too, whatever it was.

“It shouldn’t have to. You should reapply. You had a scholarship, didn’t you? Think it’ll still be valid?”

“I dunno.”

“You should find out.”

Derek refills their glasses. Stiles feels irritation building. It’s one thing showing Derek his work. Having him poke around, stirring up ideas that will never come to fruiting, is a whole other thing. Hope is the one thing Stiles can’t afford. Not if he wants to keep on living this life without going completely mad.

“Leave it, please,” he presses out between clenched teeth, and Derek puts his hands up.

“Alright, I’ll leave it. For now,” he adds, and Stiles feels too wrung-out to argue. At least the topic is laid to rest for the time being.

After a few minutes of silence, not as companionable as it was before Derek started prodding, but still easy enough, Stiles decides turnaround is fair. Derek isn’t shy about asking Stiles hard questions about his family, his choices, Scott and other stuff he usually does his best to push down and out of the way. It’s about high time Stiles did the same.

“So,” he starts, plunging in before he can agonize himself out of it, “Why exactly did you crawl back here to this big empty house? I always got the distinct feeling you didn’t exactly love it here, so it’s not for the ambiance, that I know.”

Derek stiffens slightly, but recovers quickly. He looks pensive for a moment, then after a while relaxes into the cushions.

“Avoidance, mostly,” he admits, staring into his glass. “Bad breakup, and I just couldn’t stomach moving into my new, empty apartment just yet. So, I turned tail and ran home.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Stiles hadn’t even thought to ask about Derek’s relationship status. Had just assumed he was single, for some reason. Which he is, even if it is a recent change. Not that it’s any of Stiles’ business.

“Not your fault, and you didn’t know, so nothing to be sorry about. It was a long time coming, I guess. I just didn’t want to face it.”

Stiles can relate. So much. His thoughts stray to Lydia and their undefined relationship. He’s hardly in any position to pass judgment - or give advice for that matter. He hasn’t really talked much with her the last few weeks, their schedules in constant conflict, or so he claims…

“You moved out then? That’s rough.”

Derek smiles sadly. “Only fair, I guess. It was his apartment in the first place.”

The world freezes.

_His_.

Suddenly bits of conversations and accusations from Scott make so much more sense.

You know about him, right?

Come to think of it he should have known. Should have pieced it together. The clues were all there. How Cora always talked about Derek’s partner, how Malia mentioned nancies and surfboards, how Scott alluded to some dark affliction with a scrunched up nose.

He plays the revelation off as casually as he can. Not because the dude aspect bothers him, because it really doesn’t, but more because he doesn’t want Derek to realize he didn’t know. More importantly he doesn’t want to act any different because of it.

He settles for a muffled “bummer” which Derek repeats in agreement.

“I guess, after a few years living with someone, being by myself was daunting enough. Getting used to a new place on top of that just seemed too much. So,” he says with a self-deprecating smile, “I ran from my problems.”

Unsurprisingly, Stiles can relate to that. It’s basically the motto of his life.

The rest of the night passes normally enough. When Stiles crawls into bed in the guest room next to Vicky’s later that night, he’s slightly buzzed and decidedly loose-limbed. Despite a generous amount of alcohol in his blood stream, which usually makes him pass out as soon as he lies down, he can’t sleep. Instead, he lies awake for a long time, mulling the discovery of Derek’s sexuality over in his mind. Mentally rolling it around, like the notion is perched on a turntable, a piece of art for him to examine from every angle before passing judgment.

He’s half scared he’ll wake up and everything will be different, though he can’t see why it should. Derek is still Derek, end of story.

The only discernible change since the realization is how aware Stiles now is of every touch. Like when they hugged goodnight, barely more than the standard bro hug, and yet Stiles had been intensely aware, down to a molecular level, of all the places their bodies touched. Finally, sleep catches up with him, the last coherent thought before he drifts off how much he liked it…


	5. Chapter 5

When Stiles wakes the next morning - or more like mid-day judging by the angle of the sun, he’s forgotten all about the quiet contemplations of the previous night. Sleep-tousled and yawning he pads into the kitchen only to find it deserted. Confused, he goes to check Vicky’s guest room, the living room, and the patio but there’s no sign of either of them anywhere.

Stiles is just starting to work himself into a mild frenzy when Vicky’s infectious laughter reaches him. He hurries over to the garden fence, peering over the edge. The Hale house is set on a bluff overlooking the beach. He makes out two people, surrounded by what looks like shovels, buckets and wheelbarrows, both engrossed in the construction of a massive sandcastle.

Grinning, Stiles quickly eats a bowl of some sort of wheat mix to stave off the worst of his hunger, grabs a towel and his bag, then heads down to join them.

“There he is!” crows Derek, voice almost annoyingly chipper, nudging Vicky lightly. She looks to be concentrating on digging a wide moat around the castle. When Stiles draws nearer he can see that it’s quite the masterpiece, one side a bit more lopsided than the other, but the massive amounts of shells and seaweeds decorating it more than makes up for the sloping turrets.

Vicky’s eyes light up in mischief and before Stiles has the presence of mind to run, he’s attacked on two fronts. It’s obviously a planned attack, buckets of water ready. He’s dowsed in seconds, Vicky crowning the crushing defeat by shoving an impressive amount of sand down his t-shirt. Who know such small hands could holds so much! Of course, Derek putting his whole weight to hold him down, helps tremendously.

“I yield,” Stiles pleads, hands searching frantically for places to attack his assailants. He knows Vicky is extremely ticklish, and after a few minutes Derek has switched sides, causing her to roll around on the sand in near hysterics. They soon release her, and Stiles strips of his t-shirt and takes her into the water to clean off the worst of the sand. When they return Derek hands out slices of watermelon and a truce is formally reached.

They spend another hour finishing the sandcastle. Stiles has to admit it’s a fine achievement, and he takes the time to sit back and draw it while Vicky puts the finishing touches to the decorations.

“I’m hungry,” she finally announces, and they pack up their stuff, carry it back to the house and then walk down the beach towards the beach-side diners to get lunch. Vicky walks between them, grabbing hold both his and Derek’s hands. They trudge along, hands clasped, every once in a while swinging her up in the air to her utter delight.

After burgers, fries and ice-cream, Vicky uses her doe-eyed wiles on Derek to get a turn on the old carousel on the pier before they start to make their way back. While they’re walking, allowing Vicky to keep up an endless chatter without much interruptions, Stiles all of a sudden remembers the revelation from the night before. He’s pleased to note that it hasn’t changed his perception of Derek at all. He’s not weirded out, which is a relief. He never pegged himself as homophobic, being friends with Danny for years and years, but Danny was always gay. In Stiles’ head he always pictured Derek as straight, so this is a Litmus test of sorts, putting to the test just how open and accepting he is.

Surprisngly, Stiles realizes the primary emotion curling around his brain, is curiosity. He finds himself idly wondering what kind of guy Derek finds attractive. What his ex looked like. Stiles tries to see if Derek checks out any of the guys they pass on their way, but Derek mostly watches Vicky or glances over to share looks and grins with Stiles. Oddly, it makes him feel warm all over, and it’s definitely not just from the heat of the day.

_“Stiles!”_

They’re almost back at the house when Lydia’s voice shatters the near perfect bubble Stiles has basked in since the night before. He whirls around, limbs flapping around aimlessly like a rag-doll caught in a typhoon, to find Lydia, her friend Kira and a few others he recognizes the faces off. He thinks the big black guy is named Boyd and is a chef at the restaurant where Lydia works. The blond bombshell in the back looks vaguely familiar, but Stiles can’t place her.

“Hey,” he says self-consciously, casting a nervous glance in Derek’s direction. He looks mildly curious, face perfectly at ease, although his shoulders look kind of tense. Or maybe that’s just Stiles’ imagination?

“What’cha doing out here?”

Lydia covers the distance between them in no time, graceful as always, giving him a warm hug. She smells like coconut sunscreen, raspberries and safety.

“Erica lives in one of the bungalows down the beach,” she says, pointing at the blond girl. Puzzle pieces slot together in Stiles’ mind, and he’s unable to hide his astonishment.

“Erica Reyes?” he inquires incredulously.

“Hey, there Batman,” she grins, her teeth impossible white against the red of her lipstick. “Long time, no see. I didn’t know you had a daughter,” she adds, waving at Vicky.

“It’s Scott and Allison’s girl,” Lydia explains hurriedly and in a whisper, as not to upset Vicky. She doesn’t appear to have heard anyway. She’s staring wide-eyed, head bent backwards, up at Boyd.

“Are you a giant?” She cocks her head. “I’ve never met a giant before.”

Boyd’s low rumble is soft and pleasant. He shakes his head. “No, little miss. I’m not a giant, you’re just really tiny.”

Vicky crosses her arms in a huff, lips in a pout. “Am not!” she declares. Boyd holds up his arms in mock-surrender.

“My apologies, little miss. Of course not.”

“We’re heading back to Erica’s if you want to join us,” Lydia offers hopefully. Stiles squirms. The idea of mixing Derek with Lydia is somehow making him very uncomfortable.

“I’m not sure,” he begins.

“I have a puppy,” Erica interrupts, directing the information at Vicky who lights up like a Christmas Tree.

“Oh, please! Uncle Stiles, can we please go? Pleeeeease?”

Stiles never could resist those Bambi-eyes of hers.

 

  
****

 

  
“I didn’t know Cora’s brother was back.”

Lydia and Stiles are sitting on the porch swing outside Erica’s bungalow, watching Vicky and Derek play fetch by tossing a Frisbee around, making Erica’s adorable and energetic Golden Retriever puppy run back and forth between them, tail wagging excitedly.

“It’s not a permanent move,” Stiles mumbles, every fiber of his being itching to join them. Still, he feels obligated to stay with Lydia. He’s been neglecting her for ages, avoiding her phone calls and giving out increasingly lousy excuses not to meet up.

“Bad breakup. He has to move into a new apartment and decided to take a detour back home. He claims to need the peace and quiet to write a new book, but I’m not sure how productive he is.”

“He’s an author? I didn’t know that.”

Stiles doesn’t comment. What’s there to say?

“So, you’ve been spending a bit of time with him, then?”

The question is innocent enough, but Stiles has known Lydia long enough to detect the subtle nuances in her tone of voice. There’s a veiled accusation buried underneath it, and he knows no matter how he answers, she’ll end up taking it the wrong way.

“Yeah, a bit. We’ve been surfing and hanging out. I don’t really see him that often, living in different cities and all. Thought I’d take advantage while he’s here. Nice to have a surfing buddy, too,” he adds.

“Makes sense,” she says, thought it really doesn’t sound like she means it.

They don’t really talk for a while after that. Lydia keeps fiddling with the loose threads of her cut-off denim shorts, her hand casually bumping into Stiles’ every now and then. He takes the hint, but still doesn’t take her hand.

Kira and Boyd join them outside, bringing their guitars with them, and as they start playing the tension eases somewhat.

Soon after Erica reemerges from the bungalow with snacks and beers. She settles down next to Boyd and starts singing softly. Her voice is raspy and mellow. Lydia joins in after a few minutes, harmonizing beautifully. She keeps tugging on his sleeve, grinning, obviously wanting for him to pitch in as well, but Stiles is saved when the Frisbee smacks him in the back of his head.

“You did that on purpose!” he accuses in mock-outrage, snatching up the plastic disk, tossing it back. Derek catches it deftly, spinning slightly just for show. Stiles flips him the bird and is about to sit down again when Derek throws it back at him. He has to perform a sort of half-dive to catch it, almost up-ending Erica’s makeshift table in the process.

“Hey, hot-stuff! Take that shit down to the beach, okay,” she says, shooing him away. “You’re messing up my groove, here.”

Stiles grabs the opportunity to escape Lydia, chicken as he is. He feels rotten about it, vows to talk to her tomorrow. This isn’t the place for it, anyway. Right? Stiles was always a master procrastinator.

“Smooth moves, Stilinski,” Derek grins, one eyebrow raised in that infuriating arch of his. Mostly infuriating because Stiles can’t do it. Not even close. His mirror can attest to a series of failed attempts, and he’s thankful it can’t spill its secrets.

“I’m very nimble,” says Stiles haughtily, picking invisible lint of his t-shirt.

“I’ve noticed,” replies Derek smoothly, and if Stiles didn’t know better he’d say Derek is flirting. He’s almost positive that was a thinly veiled innuendo. In addition, Derek’s got some sort of eyebrow action going on that he’s not yet cataloged. For odd reasons, Stiles feels his face heat.

“Where’s Vicky?” he asks quickly, eager to focus on something else.

Derek points at a cluster of trees next to Erica’s bungalow. Vicky and the puppy, who’s name is Roger of all things, is playing blissfully, both obviously smitten with the other.

Stiles pretends to watch them carefully, and then, when Derek’s not paying attention, he hurtles the Frisbee in his direction. It hits Derek on the shoulder, eliciting a short yelp of surprise. Stiles laughs for a full five minutes, and ends up with handfuls of sand down his shirt, gleefully deposited by Derek. He finds he doesn’t much mind.

When the sun starts to set, they make their way back to the bungalow. Erica has rolled out a small barbecue and they’re roasting marshmallows and hot-dogs. Derek goes inside to use the bathroom and Stiles finds the only available seat is once again next to Lydia. Vicky is sitting on her lap, happily stuffing her face with the gooey snack, so he deems it safe enough.

He should know by now that looks can be very deceiving.

“When did you get together with Derek?”

Lydia asks it casually, whispered so Vicky doesn’t hear. Stiles feels his insides freeze solid, like his entire being has been doused in nitroglycerin.

“What do you mean?” he croaks, mentally cursing how his voice nearly breaks. “We first started hanging out a few weeks back. Right after Cora left, in fact. I told you this earlier.”

Lydia simply stares at him with those laser rays of hers, orbs that singlehandedly would’ve destroyed the Death Star had she been a character in the Star Wars Universe. He tries to hold it, but it’s a futile endeavor.

“We’re not,” he says, abandoning his attempt at feigning ignorance. “Not the way you mean. Or how I think you mean. Anyway, we’re just hanging out. Platonically,” he adds with a violent head-nod. Headbangers everywhere would be proud.

Lydia narrows her eyes, head tilted to the side and one eyebrow raised. It’s very skeptical. It’s weird how an eyebrow can be considered skeptical, but hers totally is. Also, Stiles is surrounded by people with incredible eyebrow-game. It’s not fair at all.

“I’m not - like that,” he hisses, teeth clenched.

Derek chooses that moment to step back outside, but he’s too far away to hear their conversation. His eyes immediately seek out Stiles’, though, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Well, he sure wishes you were,” says Lydia primly, handing Vicky over and getting to her feet in a flourish of red hair and annoyance. She slumps down next to Kira instead, demonstratively not looking in Stiles’ direction.

Yeah, he’s kind of screwed.

 

  
***

 

  
They take their leave not long after. Vicky has started to yawn widely, and it’s high time she ate something with a higher nutritional value than marshmallows. Stiles hadn’t planned on staying this long, and decides it’s probably a good idea to let Scott know they’re okay, and will be home soon.

Scott picks up on the second ring, a new personal record but it’s immediately clear that’s not a good thing.

“Where the fuck are you?” he hisses into Stiles’ ear.

Hisses are the worst. Stiles much prefers yelling or indifference. Whenever Scott enters hiss-mode he tends to blurt out some really hurtful stuff. It always throws Stiles off how the lovable goofball of his former years, and this Scott is the same person.

“Don’t worry, Scott,” he says calmly, “we’re on our way back home real soon. Did you have a nice time with Malia last night?”

Of course, Stiles knows Malia planned to have a serious talk with Scott, but if he doesn’t ask it’ll probably seem more suspicious. Like he’s in on it. Which he totally is, but that’s not the point. The point is, Stiles always asks how Scott’s been, and he’s not about to change that fact, no matter what reaction it might bring.

“None of your business,” Scott replies curtly. “What I’d like to know is why my daughter has spent the last twenty-four hours at some poofter’s house. I specifically requested that she’d be kept away from him.”

“Being gay isn’t contagious, you know,” Stiles remarks icily, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s pacing the patio while Derek fixes Vicky some food.

“No?”

There’s something sharp and cruel in his voice that instantly puts Stiles’ senses on high alert. “I didn’t think so either, but now I hear you’re gallivanting all over the place with him, like a real couple of fags. People talk, Stiles.”

“So I gather.”

He’s unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He’s not really surprised. The rumor mill in this town is impressive.

“What does it matter? We’re not together like that. I’m just hanging out, and he’s a great guy. I don’t see a problem with that.”

“Well, I do. I want my daughter back pronto!”

Something breaks in the background making Stiles suspect Scott has thrown something into the wall. Yeah, he’s not real eager to bring Vicky back to that!

“Is Malia there?” he asks. Scott curses like a drunk sailor with a toothache, which tells him everything he needs to know.

“I’ll call you back in a sec,” he says and hangs up, cutting Scott off mid-rant. He dials Malia next, relieved when she answers promptly.

“What happened?” he asks without introduction. Malia lets out a long breath on the other end of the line.

“It went reasonably well, actually,” she says, surprising him. “He didn’t say much, but he listened to what I had to say, and a bit later in the evening he talked a bit about Allison. Nothing major, just a few stories from high school, but at least he acknowledged her.”

“That’s good!” Stiles comments, totally in awe.

“Don’t get too excited,” Malia warns. “This morning he woke in a terrible mood. I think we have to be prepared for this. That one step forward might result in some relapses. He’s just started to gently poke at this festering wound, and that is bound to hurt like a motherfucker. I think today is all about protecting himself, so he’s lashing out right and left. If I were you, I’d stay away for the night.”

“He kind of demanded I return home with Vicky,” Stiles mutters angrily. Malia snorts.

“He can demand the moon for all I care! That doesn’t mean we have to give it to him. If you can stay another night, then do. I’m heading back there in an hour or so, and I’ll stick by him to prevent him from tilting completely.”

“Okay,” he nods, relieved beyond words. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.”

They say their goodbyes and Stiles heads back inside. Derek meets his eyes, the question burning in them like a hot flame. Stiles simply shrugs, not wanting to discuss the specifics with Vicky in the room. Not that she’ll hear anything anyway. Stiles grins, pointing at her. She’s bent over the counter, head on her arms, fast asleep. It’s such a beautiful moment, he just has to draw it. Derek seems to sense this, handing him his bag with the notebook without comment.

 

  
***

 

  
A little later Derek carries Vicky to her room. No. Not her room. The guest room. Stiles shakes his head slightly, loosening the cobwebs. It’s been a long day in the sun he tells himself, and his brain’s a bit fried. Though, he has to admit, spending time here does feel more like home than his actual home. It’s only a matter of time before Derek leaves, and then this little bubble of domestic bliss will burst. He knows the contrast will be harsh, both for Vicky and him, still he can’t bring himself to stay away. It feels worth it somehow.

They’re both too tired to cook anything. Derek orders take-away and Stiles takes a shower while they wait for the food. His clothes are still lined by sand, and it’s not until he steps out of the shower he realizes he doesn’t have anything clean to put on.

He hesitates at the door, a towel wrapped around his waist, then chides himself for even stopping to consider whether he can walk out like this. They’ve spent hours surfing and hanging around the beach lately, always in shorts and often without shirts on. This isn’t much different. And yet, the thought still sneaks in, and he knows it’s only there because he now knows Derek’s gay.

“Get a grip,” he mumbles irritably. “It’s not like he’s gonna jump you for walking out in a towel.”

He feels extraordinarily silly, giving his reflection an incredulous look. Then he turns the knob and walks out. It’s not like Derek will stop and drool at the sight. He’s not that much of a looker!

 

  
**

 

  
Derek doesn’t drool, that much is true, but he does freeze when he catches sight of Stiles in the doorway. His eyes roam from the towel, across his torso and eventually meets his eyes. Stiles isn’t cool enough to wink, but he’s a master blusher, cheeks reddening. It’s already established he doesn’t have any kind of eyebrow-game, and is, on top of that, entirely out of witty remarks. Which means he just stands there, looking silly. Derek recovers after just a few beats, but his movements seem stilted somehow.

“I’m sandy,” Stiles says stupidly, mentally smacking himself for the horrible choice of words. “Not like the girl. Not like Sandy D or whatever.”

He hums a few bars from the iconic song, doing a little curtsy before catching himself, cheeks burning. Derek looks stupefied.

“My clothes are covered in sand and I was wondering if I could borrow something?”

He’s rambling. Sandy D? Where the hell did that come from?

“Sure,” says Derek, hurrying up the stairs like he’s chased by rottweilers. He returns a little later with a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. Stiles accepts them with a muttered “thanks” and retreats to the bathroom to change. He’s jittery and nervous for some reason, and actually needs two attempts before he gets the shirt on the right way.

When he finally walks back out, the food has arrived and Derek is busy opening containers of Chinese food, finding plates and getting drinks. Stiles didn’t know eating take-away could require that much work, but he lets Derek do his thing, sliding onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, leaning heavily on his elbows, chin in hand.

Finally, Derek seems to have fetched everything needed because he settles down opposite Stiles, sliding into his seat with worldly poise. Wordlessly, they begin to eat.

They don’t speak much aside from questions like “pass the dumplings” and “can I have a napkin.” Stiles is so tired, he continues to eat, still resting his face in one hand, the other deftly maneuvering the chopsticks from dish to dish. It takes him a while to realize Derek has stopped eating. He pauses with the chopsticks halfway to his mouth, meeting Derek’s intense stare.

“What?” he asks, scrunching his nose. “Do I have something on my face?”

Derek doesn’t answer. Simply stares with an intensity suggesting he’s studying a piece of art. Or a particularly intricate equation he’s eager to find the solution to. Then, before Stiles can even process movement, Derek leans over the counter, cupping Stiles’ face with one hand, kissing him softly on the lips.

Time freezes. The clock stops ticking, the waves seize their movement, the world stops spinning and Stiles momentarily forgets how to breathe. He’s like a salt pillar, unmoving, and it seems all his brain waves have stopped communicating as well, because his mind has gone completely blank, only registering one fact.

Derek Hale is kissing him!

The moment stretches out for an eternity. In the farthest corner of his subconscious a faint murmur of carefully hidden truths are threatening to scamper to the forefront, but they are quickly silenced when Derek abruptly jolts back, face stricken. In all this, Stiles hasn’t moved an inch. And yet it still feels like a quantum leap.

“I’m - I’m so sorry,” Derek stammers, hiding his face in his hands. “I didn’t think -”.

He stops abruptly, his back against the fridge, having backed hastily away, presumably to get as much distance between them as possible. It takes another long moment before Stiles regains the use of his body, let alone his mouth.

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles, waving a hand casually to show his indifference. He knocks over the container of Chop Suey.

“I do worry about it,” Derek protests earnestly. “I’m usually not forward like that. I firmly believe in explicit consent, and although I sometimes think I might be picking up some vibes, that doesn’t excuse this.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide, back suddenly straight in his chair.

“I’m not gay!” he blurts out, too harshly, and definitely way too loudly to come off as entirely truthful. Yet it is. He’s never considered guys as romantic interests, and just because he happens to be friends with someone who does, that doesn’t mean he has to feel inclined to give it a whirl.

Derek raises his arms, nodding in affirmation.

“Yeah, of course. My mistake,” he says, pressing out a small smile, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes, and Stiles might be reading way too much into things, but he swears he can tell Derek doesn’t entirely believe him. Which is ludicrous. He’s with Lydia, for crying out loud! Not a dick in sight! Aside from himself, and how he’s a total dick for the way he treats her, but that’s all figurative anyway.

“Look,” Stiles begins, desperate to salvage the situation and his friendship with Derek. “I’m incredibly flattered that you even consider me in that way.”

Derek rolls his eyes a bit, but he looks mostly embarrassed.

“I’m not taking the piss,” he assures. “I’ve never really been chased down by anyone, romantically speaking, so this is honestly a huge boost to my confidence.”

He makes sure to look Derek in the eye as he says this, because it’s actually true.

“I really am sorry,” Derek repeats. “I hope it won’t change anything between us.”

“It won’t,” Stiles assures.

 

Naturally, it does.

It changes _everything_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something off about this chapter, but I've given up on pinpointing what it is, so I decided to just post it. Hope it wasn't too disappointing :)


	6. Chapter 6

  
Vicky starts rambling on about Roger the dog the moment she opens her eyes the next morning, and spends every minute pestering them to go visit Erica again. Her endless pleas, only intersected by long, whimsical musings about Mulan (her latest Disney favorite), keep Stiles and Derek occupied, and they’re spared too many awkward moments.

Stiles has work, and Derek mumbles about research and plotting out a crucial scene, and it’s honestly a relief when the door closes between them. The atmosphere in the house had seemed potent in a way Stiles is hard pressed to identify. Almost palpable, like thick summer fog, not really scary, but still inducing a certain anticipation and thrill, not knowing what you might encounter amids the unknown.

Bobby’s Market proves an excellent place to be if you want to avoid thinking too much. It’s an incredibly busy day. Two for one sale on canned goods is always a hit, drawing in people from all corners of the city, including some truly odd characters. When his shift finally ends, Stiles feels he’s aged seven years. He has that stretched-too-thin feeling, and wants nothing but to slump down on his bed and drift off to oblivion.

Instead, he picks up Vicky and heads home, anxious for what awaits them. He’s not had time to call Malia like they’d agreed, which means he’s basically flying blind. There’s no messages from her warning him not to come, which is a good sign. Still, experience has taught him to expect the unexpected.

Thankfully, Vicky doesn’t seem to pick up on his anxiousness, still alternating between singing Roger the dog’s and Mulan’s praises. She’s still prattling on about how funny the horses look, with their tiny feet compared to their over-sized head and torsos, when Stiles comes to an abrupt stop in the hallway. She bumps into him and he catches her by the backpack before she falls to the floor.

“Why did you stop?” she asks apprehensively, peering carefully out behind his feet. Stiles doesn’t know how to respond. There’s a foreign sound emanating from the next room, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

“Is daddy - _singing_?” Vicky asks breathlessly, brown eyes wide like saucers.

He is. That is undeniably the somewhat throaty tunes of one Scott McCall.

“Expect the unexpected,” Stiles mumbles to himself. Somehow this never even made it on to his list of possible scenarios, deemed about as unlikely as werewolves.

Stiles can’t remember the last time he heard Scott sing like this. He’s got a decent enough voice, and he’s standing by the stove, stirring something with great enthusiasm, hips swinging in sync to what sounds like Backstreet Boys. Not exactly Stiles’ music of choice, but if belting out “Backstreet’s Back” is somehow both therapeutic and an allegory for Scott slowly getting back on track, then he’ll suffer through it.

“Hey, you two.”

They both startle, turning to find Malia leaning against the door frame to the living room, smiling. She gestures for them to follow her and they leave Scott to his ministrations, still blissfully unaware of onlookers.

“Well, this is an improvement.” Stiles does his best to arch an eyebrow. He’s been practicing. Malia nods, then kneels down to help Vicky dispose of her backpack.

“Hey, sweetie, why don’t you put this away in your room?” she asks, gesturing down the hall. “I put something on your bed, too,” she adds with a conspiratorial wink. Vicky rushes off without comment.

Malia turns back to Stiles, shoulders sagging. She looks exhausted, bags under her eyes.

“I think we’ve made some real progress,” she confides in a low voice. “Last night was -”. She pauses. “It was difficult. Lots of yelling, a bit of door slamming. A few glasses broken, insults traded, and finally some tears. I don’t think he’s really cried at all since it happened, and it’s been all bottled up.”

She sighs, clutching a pillow to her chest, meeting Stiles gaze.

“He still has a lot of grieving to do, but I think the dam has broken. He showed me some albums earlier this morning. It’s been a roller-coaster since, moments of melancholy, some tears, a bit of anger, but he’s been singing that song for the last hour or so. Does it mean anything to you?”

Stiles can’t think of anything at first, until it finally hits him, along with a stream of memories.

“I think it was the first song they danced to,” he says slowly, rewinding to a time when everything seemed so dramatic and yet it was nothing compared to the present day. He’s kind of glad his younger self was so utterly clueless. Otherwise, he never would’ve gotten through high school.

“It was during our sophomore year. The Winter ball. It was not long after Allison transfered, and Scott had finally plucked up the courage to ask her out. I think he was determined to slow dance with her at all cost, and dragged her onto the dance floor the minute they got there. They were the only ones slow dancing to that, but where in such a happy bubble they didn’t care or notice.”

He smiles wistfully. That had been a good night.

Malia nods, eyes distant. She seems deep in thought for a moment, and Stiles startles slightly when she suddenly claps her hands together.

“So. Dinner?” she inquires, tone light and breezy in the way voices get when you’re trying to project cheerfulness just a tad too forcefully.

“You’ll join us, right?”

The ecstatic shriek of a young girl gets in the way of Stiles’ answer. Vicky streams through the room like a petite Flash, minus the red jumpsuit. Instead, she’s decked head to toe in Disney Princess gear, tiara and all. She radiates happiness.

“I love it, I love it, I love it!” she chants, doing a little victory dance, almost tripping on the slightly too-long trail of her dress. “And it’s not even my birthday!” she adds, doing an elaborate twirl.

“Sometimes the best presents are the ones we don’t expect,” Malia says fondly. “You deserve it, sweetie pie.”

Vicky’s all out of words anyway, and instead whirls through to the hall to admire herself in the full-length mirror. Scott pokes his head out of the kitchen not long after, announcing that dinner is served. Malia goes to cajole Vicky out of the dress not to stain it, and Scott steps fully into the living room, rubbing the back of his head nervously.

“So,” he says slowly, struggling to meet Stiles’ gaze. “I’m really sorry about-.” He gestures aimlessly around the room.

“I know.”

Stiles feels suddenly incredibly tired, mixed with a fair bit of frustration and annoyance. It’s wonderful to see Scott taking the first, tentative step towards dealing with his grief, but that doesn’t really erase months and months of tiptoeing around him, taking care of Vicky and more or less erasing all of his own wants, likes, desires and future plans. A muttered sorry and a hand-gesture can’t make up for that, and yet it’s better than nothing, and he can’t afford to alienate himself now.

“You wanna eat with us?” Scott asks, extending the equivalent of an olive branch. It’s a nice gesture, but one Stiles doesn’t fully trust. There had been others like it, and they’d all broken before long. He’ll play it cautiously this time.

“Thanks, but I think maybe you three should spend the time together, without me. Vicky sees me all the time, anyway. She could use the break.”

He forces a smile at the last part, shrugging self-deprecating.

“I - I’m really grateful,” Scott stammers, eyes downcast. His cheeks are rosy beneath his golden complexion. “And I totally didn’t mean all that stuff I said last night,” he adds apologetically. “Not really. I mean, Danny was as gay as they come and it never bothered me, so-”

“I’m not gay, Scott.”

If there’s one thing Stiles really doesn’t want a reminder of right now, it’s that. He’s done a decent job of pushing the kiss from last night out of his mind throughout the day. He not keen to discuss it with Scott of all people.

“Oh, okay,” he replies, somewhat perplexed. Stiles decides not to read anything into it.

“I guess I just wanted to say that it wouldn’t be a problem you know. If you were, that is. Gay, I mean.”

Stiles jerks his head slightly, the gesture undefined in it’s meaning.

“You coming?” Malia calls, and Stiles takes the opportunity to escape.

“I’ll be in the garage,” he announces, closing the door firmly behind him.

 

  
***

 

 

The garage is mostly used for painting and more experimental stuff involving cans of spray and cutouts. Stiles heads straight for the old stereo, selecting the most punky music he can find. He turns up the volume in an effort to drown out his own thoughts, but of course they prove to be louder than he’s comfortable with.

He works on one of his huge sheets for cutouts, selecting a motif at random and getting to work. An hour later he’s tagged half the south wall with random silhouettes. It’s a jumbled mess of contrasting elements that weirdly perfectly reflects his current state of mind. Chaotic.

After pacing back and forth for an unknown amount of time, he eventually flings himself down on the threadbare and paint-specked sofa. He ends up with his feet propped up against the wall, head falling halfway out over the edge of the cushions. He can feel blood slowly pooling in his head, and yet it does nothing to quell the chorus of confusion currently playing out its torturous symphonies.

When his feet start to prickle with blood-loss, Stiles awkwardly rolls out and down on the floor, then sits there, alternating between rubbing at his neck and rocking back and forth. He probably resembles a mental patient, which is fitting since he feels like a basket case, unable to steer his thoughts away from that one moment.

That kiss.

Part of him scoffs and curses Derek for messing up a perfectly fine friendship, while another part is torn between wanting to purge it from his memory or rewind and relive it in an endless loop. It’s the latter part that scares him most.

Closing his eyes Stiles can almost feel the soft, silky touch of Derek’s lips. Hears the slight hitch before their lips met, feels his breath on his face. It had been nice. Really nice in fact, and not even remotely as odd kissing a guy should feel. Theoretically. Not that Stiles has contemplated that before. Not much anyway. Not more than most. Probably.

Eventually, after mentally chasing this moment around his head until he’s on the brink of hysterics, Stiles capitulates. There’s no use running from it. The conclusion is as clear as day. Staring him squarely in the face, showing no signs of backing down. The kiss isn’t really the problem. Stiles finds he isn’t bothered by the fact that Derek kissed him. Instead, he’s plagued with regret that he didn’t kiss him back.

This revelation leaves him shook. Paralyzed for what feels like a millennium, all while this notion bangs around his head like a marching band tripping balls.

Does that mean...? No! He's not gay!

Right?

Stiles is up on his feet in a the blink of an eye, back to pacing back and forth, kicking cans and paint brushes as he goes. That’s just - silly. He can’t be gay! He’s been in love with Lydia half his life, and he’s never really seriously contemplated dudes as a viable romantic option. You just don’t wake up one day, in your early twenties and bam! You’ve changed sexual orientation over night. That’s just bonkers!

So, why can’t he stop thinking about this one dude? This stubbled, dark-haired, handsome dude who practically glows when he smiles? How come Derek is the first person he thinks about when he wakes up and the last before he falls asleep?

It’s disconcerting. Stiles has never thought obsessively about anyone other than Lydia, and then later his art. It scares him. Scares him down to his bones, chills him to the core. And yet, even worse than this fear, is the thought of not really knowing what this is. Of Derek leaving. Of Stiles missing out, regretting. He’s had too much of that already, he should know better by now.

So - he leaves.

 

  
***

 

  
He almost chickens out twice on the drive over. At one point Stiles even performs a highly illegal U-turn and is halfway home before he changes his mind again. When he finally swings onto the Hale drive he’s just collective of nerves and it’s a wonder his legs works at all. Stiles knows that if he gives himself time to think, even just a split second, there’s a good chance he’ll turn tail and run again, and he can’t afford that. Can’t have any more what-ifs in his life.

He must look ridiculous the way he sprints towards the door, and once there he assaults the doorbell, pushing it repeatedly, hearing dully the tones ringing out inside, some sort of melodious classical stuff that Stiles knows nothing about. It feels like forever until the door is opened, the tail-end of the doorbell’s symphony still playing out in the hallway. Derek looks annoyed for the first split second, but when Stiles burst forward, reaching out, cupping his face, his expression morphs into astonished anticipation.

Then, finally, Stiles’ lips are on his, and time and space becomes this unimportant concept that barely registers. All Stiles can think is _“mine, mine, mine”_. The kiss is bruising and soft at the same time, but most of all intense in a way he’s never experienced before. Stiles doesn’t even register that Derek’s been backing up until his back collides with the wall and suddenly so much more of Stiles’ body is touching him, and it’s fire! It burns hot, all-consuming and hungrily.

“Stiles,” Derek wheezes out in one of the short breaks when they’re both forced to take in air. “Are you sure about this?” he asks anxiously, and Stiles is filled with fondness, arousal, and need all rolled into one. Of course Derek is concerned about consent. Has to make sure Stiles is just that - sure.

“Absolutely sure,” he mouths breathlessly, trailing kisses down Derek’s neck and god! How did he even question this? How come he didn’t get this the moment they met up again? They could’ve been doing this for weeks already!

“Bed,” he demands, determined to make up for lost time.

The events of the next few minutes are hazy. It’s like Stiles is sex-drunk and blacking out at odd intervals. He remembers pushing Derek towards the stairs, next they’re groping frantically at the landing, t-shirts long gone, hands exploring frantically. When he’s next lucid he’s sprawled across Derek’s bed, his pants being removed with urgent hands.

“I have no clue what I’m doing,” he confesses. Derek pauses to look down on him, a truly adoring look on his face, eyes blown wide with want.

“Do whatever feels right and good,” he says, running a hand down Stiles’ torso reverently. “There is no right and wrong,just what you like and what you don’t. Just let me know if you want to stop, okay?”

Stiles grabs hold of his hand, yanking him down on top of him, claiming his lips again. “I don’t wanna stop,” he whispers, biting down on Derek’s lower lip.

They don’t.

 

  
***

 

  
Stiles wakes in increments, slowly resurfacing to consciousness through a haze of colorful dreams and a feeling of deep satisfaction, tinged with slight confusion. It’s the kind of feeling that follows after a really good night’s sleep, a pleasant dream and the knowledge you have the time to stay in bed as long as you want.

It’s been a long, long time since Stiles experienced anything like it, thus the confusion. It feels as if he’s still dreaming. The surrounding is unfamiliar, the sheets not his own and when he rolls over he stares straight into Derek’s mesmerizing eyes, studying him like he’s a particularly pleasing piece of art.

“Good morning,” he says, brushing some of Stiles’ more uncooperative strands of hair out of his face. The gesture is achingly intimate, causing his heart to skip a beat or two.

“Hey,” he croaks back, feeling a smile tug at his lip. The events of last night is catching up with him, and he’s amazed to realize he’s not feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable. Instead, he feels sated, languid and happy in a way he never expected to find again.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Derek blurts out, allowing his eyes to roam Stiles face, while his finger is tracing the moles.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles snorts, burrowing his face into the pillow, the first trace of awkward rearing its ugly head.

“Don’t do that.”

Derek turns his chin, meeting his gaze. “You’ve got no reason to be so self-deprecating all the time. You’re a great guy, Stiles Stilinski. Also, you’re hot like burning. So, learn to take a compliment, either for your looks, your personality or your talent. It’s all warranted.”

Derek clearly means this, Stiles realizes. There’s a firm set to his jaw that he knows means he’s serious. It warms him deep in his core, also it warms his cheeks, already burning red.

“Okay,” he says, ducking his head. Derek’s fingers brush the rosy splotches across his cheekbones, like he’s enthralled.

“You’re beautiful, too,” Stiles whispers.

It’s strange to be complimenting a guy, but at the same time not. Lying here, curled up beside him feels very natural, for some reason.

“And hot,” he adds mischievously. “So hot, it’s hard not to do this.” He bucks his hips, allowing Derek to notice how achingly hard he is. Thinking back on the escapades of last night doesn’t help remedy the situation, far from it.

Derek produces a guttural sound that tips Stiles face-first over the edge from “aroused” to “acutely horny”. Next Derek leans over, and then they’re kissing again.

The world around them falls away.

 

  
***

 

  
The day is perfect. Stiles loves it all. Loves the way Derek kisses, loves the way their bodies seem to slot together like custom-made puzzle-pieces. Loves the sound of his name moaned against his skin when Derek comes. Loves how he feels so at ease and so at home with Derek, both in and out of bed.

He’s never given too much thought to the mechanics of sex between two guys, at least not in the “I-might-want-to-do-this-one-day” manner, so he’s largely clueless to how things work, aside from the more obvious parts. Derek is patient and the things Stiles thought would be painful turns out to be a revelation. In short - Stiles loves that, too.

They order in again, this time opting for pizza, carrying the boxes up to Derek’s room to eat in bed. After, Derek falls asleep, and he looks so stunning Stiles simply has to draw him. When Derek eventually stirs Stiles is sitting cross-legged on the other end of the bed, notebook in lap, concentrating deeply. It takes him a while to realize Derek is staring at him.

“What?” he asks absentmindedly, working to get the shading just right.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he adds as an afterthought. “It’s not like anyone will see, anyway,” he mumbles under his breath.

Derek produces a somewhat annoyed sound, and Stiles almost topples over when he abruptly leaves the bed. He stares as Derek stalks across the room, stops at his desk and produces a set of papers, which he then hands Stiles with fierce determination. He accepts them dumbfounded.

“What’s this?” he asks, turning them over to get a better look. The Cal Arts logo almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

“I think you should re-apply,” Derek says matter-of-factly, gesturing to the forms. “You’re too talented to waste it all on notebooks no one will see, and working at a supermarket.”

“I can’t.” Stiles drops the forms like they’re burning coals, blistering his fingers. “I can’t just leave. I can’t leave Vicky.”

“It’ll be a few more months before next term starts,” says Derek in a rush, like he needs to get all his arguments out before Stiles shuts him down. Like he’s rehearsed this speech already.

“You said so yourself that Scott has opened up a bit to Malia. She’s there for him now, too. She seems to be in it for the long haul, why else would she spend so much time and effort on him. Chances are he’ll get better, which means you have to start planning for your future.”

“I might not get my scholarship back,” Stiles argues. He doesn’t have the funds or means to afford tuition and boarding without it. Maybe not even with.

“You could stay with me. My new apartment is not far from campus. I could pay your tuition.”

“I don’t want to be some kind of charity case, or gold digger,” he snarls, anger heating up. Derek looks aghast.

“Of course not!” he exclaims. “You could pay me back later. It’ll be like a student loan, only much better terms. Besides, in case you hadn’t notices already, I’m kind of head over heels in love with you. I want you to be my boyfriend. I’d love nothing more than have you live with me. You could get a part time job and contribute that way. We can even carefully record every expense so that you can pay me back at a later time. I just don’t want you to miss out. I want you to be happy.”

The last part is whispered with so much emotion, Stiles has to bite back on his tongue not to let out a choked sob. The offer is - well, it’s tempting. Still, there are a lot of uncertain factors playing in to it, Scott being the major one.

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally. It’s the best he can do right now. Derek nods, relieved that it’s not outright dismissed.

“I can live with that.”

They settle down to watch a movie after that, but Stiles’ mind is too rattled to focus much on the plot. So much has changed in such a short span of time, and where there used to be a big black hole of nothing ahead of him, different paths are starting to become visible, the blackness slowly fading into a thick mist.

 

 

***

 

  
Stiles drives home that night, a huge smile on his face. He has the window rolled down and the radio blasting early 90s pop through tinny speakers. He chimes in on some of the more cheesy love songs, finding that for once he can relate to the lyrics, especially the happy ones. It’s liberating, almost as if he’s stuck in a cliched romantic movie, and this is his colorful and softly filtered montage showcasing how happy he is. His cheeks actually hurt from smiling and singing so much, but it’s a good kind of ache.

His good mood lasts the entirety of the drive, but is forcefully crushed the moment he steps through the door at the house.

He immediately senses it. The wrongness.

It’s too quiet for one. No radio on in the kitchen, no indistinct mumble from the TV. It’s not that late, and yet no sound of Vicky, either. Stiles feels panic start to bloom in his chest, but forces himself to walk calmly, having learned early that the most important thing when you’re taking care of kids is to keep a level head. The last thing he wants to do is to scare Vicky unnecessarily.

  
“Hello?” he calls out, chipping off his shoes in the hall. No answer. The kitchen is empty, everything nice and tidy for a change. He walks back out into the hall and steps into the living room. It’s empty too. Or so he thinks. It’s not until he’s heading back out to check the bedrooms that a voice startle him.

“Where have you been?”

Stiles jumps. High. There might even be a little squeal involved. He’s not sure, and can’t really tell over the loud beating of his heart.

He twirls around, spotting Scott sitting in his dad’s old armchair. It used to be out on the floor in prime location by the TV, but no one could really bare the thought of taking his spot after he was moved to the home, so it was pushed into a corner.

Scott sits there, posture tight, face carefully blank in the way that usually means trouble.

“Fuck, Scott! You scared the shit out of me! Not cool, dude.”

Scott rolls his eyes, but shows no other emotion. It’s eerie and unnerving.

“Where have you been?” he asks again, a frosty tinge to his voice. “I tried calling you, but you never picked up.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot to take my phone with me.” Stiles shrugs. “I think I left it in the garage.”

“Oh, I know you did.”

Scott tosses something at him without warning, and Stiles fumbles to catch it. It’s his phone, the battery now long since flat-lined.

“Did something happen?” he asks breathlessly, feeling an iron claw clutch tight around his heart. The house is so unnervingly quiet, it feels like a tomb.

“Is Vicky alright?”

“I needed you here tonight,” Scott snarls. “I had a shift at Bobby’s and Malia was called away to a client. I needed you to take Vicky and you were nowhere to be found.”

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s been backing up slowly until the back of his legs hit the sofa and he slumps down in it, relieved beyond words. For a moment he’d feared another tragedy had struck. By comparison a missed shift doesn’t exactly seem like the end of the world.

“I didn’t know, you never told me you had a shift today. It’s not on the calendar,” he adds, gesturing towards the kitchen and the giant whiteboard by the fridge, put up for this exact purpose. “I thought you had the day off.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Scott says tersely. “Fuck, Stiles, I need to be able to count on you. Lately you’ve been flaking out on us more and more.”

Stiles’ eyebrows raises in pure disbelief.

“ _I’ve_ been flaking on _you_?”

For once there’s not filter in place to stop him from confronting Scott. That’s the one thing Malia’s been adamant about. The tiptoeing needs to stop. This seems as good a moment to start as any.

“ _Me_?” he repeats, voice laced with sarcastic venom. “Excuse me, but that’s a bit rich coming from you. _You’ve_ been flaking on _everyone_ for months! I stay out one night and you flip? That hardly seems fair.”

“Like it’s fair what happened to Allison? Or mom? Or your dad, for that matter?”

Scott’s voice is low, but he might as well be shouting. “Life’s not fucking fair, Stiles!”

“Oh, I know that. Believe me, I know!”

Stiles shakes his head, getting to his feet. He can’t deal with this right now. Trust Scott to fuck up the one truly good day he’s had in years.

“Great, so that’s it? You’re leaving again?”

Scott’s words are sub zero cold.

“I’m going to my room, Scott. Permission to go to bed, sir!” Stiles hisses out, taking time to enunciate the last part, adding a sarcastic salute to the mix.

“You’re being childish and selfish.” Scott mutters, shaking his head. “Ever since Derek Hale breezed back into town you’ve been acting all different. Taking Vicky over there on sleepovers, hanging out and generally acting like you’re a fucking couple or something.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Stiles asks, feeling the last remnants of his carefully constructed walls crumble. “So what if I’m spending time with someone who treats me like a person and not just a glorified babysitter. Someone who cares about what I like, what I want and how I feel. Is that so fucking selfish? To want more. To want to live?”

He pauses, taking a deep breath, trying to keep his voice from cracking with emotion.

“I get that you’re hurting, Scott. I really do. Allison died and it destroyed your world. But guess what? I destroyed mine, too. I had plans, Scott! I had dreams, I had hopes. They died with her. I put pause on my entire life to help you cope with yours, and what thanks do I get?”

Scott’s face is still carefully blank, but there’s a twitch to his lip that speak of emotions struggling not to bubble to the forefront.

“I love you, bro. I love Vicky. You’re my family. The only one I’ve got left, and if you haven’t noticed by now that I’m willing to do just about anything for you, then you’re even worse off than I thought. But -.”

Stiles closes his eyes, wary of what comes next but knowing that it needs to come out. It’s been repressed for too long, festering.

“But I need some breathing room, too. I need some things that are just for me. I’ve been erasing myself, Scott. I’ve molded myself to fit your life and needs, and in the process I lost part of me. I’m so fucking lonely, Scott. I knew I wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t until Derek came back and really saw me that I realized it myself. I can’t go back to that.”

Tears are streaming down his face by now, and he’s powerless to stop it.

“I miss you, Scott. I miss how we were. I want to help you, but I think I’ve been doing it the wrong way. By always being here, taking care of everything, of Vicky, of the house, I haven’t been helping you grieve and heal. Instead, I’ve given you time, space and ample opportunity to avoid, ignore and run from your pain.”

He slowly gets to his feet again, mustering the energy needed to walk out and head to his bedroom. Scott sits in the armchair, stunned, staring at a spot on the wall.

“I’ll take care of Vicky the days you have shifts, but going forward I’ll be focusing on me and my needs too, which means you have to step up. If you need help, ask for it. Just don’t assume or demand. Okay?”

Scott nods minutely, but doesn’t say anything. Stiles heads for his bedroom, wondering if he’s just made things better or worse, and wanting nothing but curl up next to Derek and cry. Instead, he burrows under his blanket, sobbing silently until he falls asleep exhausted, the happy montage decidedly over.


	7. Chapter 7

  
Scott isn’t up by the time Stiles wakes Vicky the next morning, which is just as well. There’s no way Stiles will be able to play it cool after the epic showdown the night before, and the last thing he wants is for Vicky to sense any discomfort between her father and him. It’s hard enough for her with Scott so absent most of the time. If Stiles begins acting flaky as well, her whole world will crumble.

He drops Vicky off at the sitter who’s blessedly back from vacation, mentally counting down the days till Kindergarten starts up again. It’ll be better for her with more kids her age around.

The coming shift in season from summer to fall also heralds the end of Derek’s visit. It was always temporary, and Stiles does his level best to avoid thinking much about it. Or he tries to, anyway. Derek’s offer for Stiles to stay with him - essentially to move in - is scary, yet tempting. Not that it’s an option. Not really, but with the recent developments in mind, it’s a nice notion.

Stiles has a short shift at Bobby’s Market. It’s delivery day which means most of his time is spent stocking the shelves. It’s preferable to working the register, anyway. The hours pass with minimal hassle, and once the shift ends, he loiters in the parking lot waiting for Scott to arrive, stomach churning with nerves. He dreads it, but needs to know what to do about Vicky, so it’s either that or text him. Somehow, that seems too cowardly, even for him. This realization gives him pause. If Stiles didn’t know better he’d think he was getting more mature. Unnerved, Stiles engages in a furious game of Candy Crush, more to chance the thought away than actual enjoyment.

He soon loses interest, closes the app and instead calls Malia. She was suspiciously absent yesterday, and Stiles fears she’s given up and moved back to San Diego. The thought frightens him more than he cares to admit.

Thankfully, she picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” she says in way of greeting, her voice a bit apprehensive.

“Hey.” Stiles swallows audibly. “Eh. So, how are things?”

Malia sighs on the other end.

“Complicated,” she replies simply, though it’s not had to pick up on her frustration.

“Honestly, I feel silly for not seeing it coming. Two steps forward, three steps back and all that jazz. Smarter people than me came up with that saying long ago, and I reckon there’s something to it.”

She sighs again and Stiles finds himself at a loss for words. He ends up sighing in turn. It seems appropriate, somehow.

“Anyway,” Malia continues, seemingly unperturbed by Stiles’ silence. “Scott’s mood sort of soured throughout the day yesterday, and got downright nasty by the time his shift was drawing closer. I kept telling him I could stay with Vicky, but he got all bent out of shape, ranting about how you just didn’t care and how he couldn’t trust you. Frankly, it pissed me off, largely because that’s obviously not true.”

She pauses. Stiles smiles morosely, rubbing the back of his neck distractedly. It’s stiff and tense. Nothing new, in other words.

“He went off on you when you pointed that out, huh?” he asks, recognizing the pattern. Scott never liked to be wrong about anything, even as a kid. Worse yet, he down-rate hates it when people point it out.

“Something like that,” she replies tersely. “I’m a patient woman - well, not really, but I’m really trying with Scott. Still, I draw the line at flat out lies and childish rants. So I left, thinking he could stew in his own juices for a bit. Serves him right, the idiot.”

The last bit is spat out in a tone that tells Stiles she’s not nearly as exasperated as she lets out. More frustrated than anything by the sound of it. Scott’s really lucky, he muses. Or, his luck is turning. Either way, it’s a good thing. Malia is good for him.

“I guess I just wanted to check on you, and you know - make sure you haven’t been completely driven away.”

Malia chuckles. “I’m like fungus, Stiles. Really hard to get rid off. I smell better, though,” she adds as an afterthought. “Please, tell me I smell better!”

“Loads,” he reassures, picking up on the rumble of Scott’s motorbike drawing closer. “Look, I gotta go. Hope to see you later.”

“Sure thing. Where did you run off to anyway?” she inquires, her tone suddenly teasing and knowing.

“Goodbye, Malia,” Stiles replies, ignoring her pleas for details and hangs up just as Scott turns onto the parking lot. He parks the bike in his usual spot and takes his sweet time stepping off and removing his helmet. Stiles squares his shoulders and walks over, determined to be the better man.

“Hi,” he greets with an awkward wave. Scott’s jaw tightens, and for a moment Stiles is certain he’ll ignore simply him and walk off. Then, after brushing his fringe away he meets Stiles’ eyes and nods.

“Hi,” he returns.

They just sort of stand there for a while, like two asphalt cowboys in the world’s lamest stand off. Stiles has never been good with awkward silences, so naturally he breaks first.

“Look, man. I’m sorry about last night. I said a lot of stuff I probably shouldn’t have, but you just pushed all the wrong buttons and I snapped.”

Scott jerks his shoulders in some sort of shrug and it’s hard to tell if he’s indifferent or mad. But at least it’s something.

“Stop it, Stiles,” he mumbles. “I’m the one who should apologize. I was a douche and I know it. It’s just -”

He pauses, scrunching his nose like the process of finding the right words makes him itch. Stiles suppresses the urge to flick it.

“Most days,” Scott continues uncertainly, “it’s like I’m full of all these conflicting emotions, and they keep building faster than I can sort them. As a result they just sort of pile up, and in the end the smallest thing sets off this avalanche of rage. It’s like I’m stretched thin until I snap, you know, and all kinds of crap spills out.”

“Like a condom,” Stiles says before he can filter himself, and it’s such a ridiculous, not to mention horribly bad analogy, he wants to slap himself. Scott freezes for a split second, then he bursts out laughing, body shaking.

“Condom!” he manages to stammer out between fits of hysteria. Stiles joins in, and soon they’re both clutching their stomachs.

“You say the weirdest shit sometimes,” Scott grins, shaking his head. “I don’t even wanna know the particulars about condoms and how you use them these days. No details about ass play, alright.”

Stiles splutters, face matching his red hoodie. He’s saved further embarrassment when Finstock pokes his head out the back door, squinting stupidly in their direction.

“McCall!” he croaks, eyes bugging as per usual. “Get your ass in here. I have a new vision for the produce section and I need you to carry out my new designs. Cantaloupes! It’ll be huge!”

Scott grimaces and ads an eye roll before he turns to leave, Finstock already inside yelling out instructions in his usual psychotic way. Stiles can hear the sounds of crates crashing to the floor.

“You want me to pick up Vicky?” Stiles calls after Scott who turns, shaking his head.

“No need. Malia’s already on her way. You go live your life, Stiles. At least for tonight,” he ads with a wink. “No need to be back before midnight, Cinderella. Just remember to wrap your wand before making magic, alright.”

“No more Disney,” Stiles pleads, shuddering. Through Vicky’s bottomless appetite for Disney flicks, Stiles has discovered there is a limit to how much you can stomach in short periods of time. Mixing it with bad puns isn’t helping matters. Scott simply flips him off, grinning widely.

“You’ve got yourself to blame for that, dude. I didn’t introduce her to the extended Disney collection at Casa Hale.”

As the door closes behind him, Stiles realizes Scott’s right. There is blame to be handed out, only Stiles is entirely innocent. Derek however.. Not so much!

He all but sprints to his jeep, climbing awkwardly inside, bumping his elbow on the steering wheel as he tries to both turn the ignition and buckle in at the same time. Not too long after, he’s got both things sorted, elbow still throbbing, and a wicked smile on his lips.

Derek needs to be punished. _Thoroughly_.

 

  
***

 

  
Bolstered by his relatively positive encounter with Scott, Stiles drives off to Derek’s, spirits high. He finds Derek in the study, wearing glasses and looking rudely delectable. He’s hammering away on his computer with the intensity and speed of a 1960s secretary.

Stiles finds himself frozen in place, marveling for a moment over the fact that he now apparently finds dudes delectable. It’s weird. He’s not sure if it’s weird for personal reasons, or weird because the world at large still isn’t totally aboard the Gay Pride parade, and he just knows it will bring grief, gossip, and a slew of other pleasantries. After watching Derek a while longer, Stiles concludes it might be weird, but so is he, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Also, he was wrong. He doesn’t find dudes delectable. Just Derek. Basically, Stiles is only gay for Derek, and there is probably a term for that, but that’s something he can research later. In fact, he decides to leave the brooding thoughts at the door, and instead attempts to launch a sneak attack.

“A ninja you are not,” Derek says flatly, eyes never leaving the screen. Stiles freezes in a frankly ridiculous pose, looking every bit the cliched villain, caught in a compromising position about to steal the crown jewels or something. God, he’s definitely been watching way too much Disney lately!

“Freak,” he mutters with a sulk. Derek makes a production of saving his document, closing the computer and swinging the chair so that he faces Stiles. He reaches up to remove the glasses, but stops when Stiles starts to spasm and jerk his arms around.

“Leave them on,” he says, licking his lips. Derek raises an eyebrow, looking every bit the part of the hot professor, a kink Stiles didn’t knew he had, but embraces wholeheartedly.

“I forgot my homework, professor,” he says in a mock chastised tone, staring at Derek through lowered lashes. “I’m ready for my detention.”

Derek leans forward, grabbing hold of Stiles’ hoodie, pulling him towards him.

“I’ll be forced to dock you a grade,” he says sternly. “I detest tardiness.”

“Please, professor, isn’t there anything I can do to make it up to you?” Stiles trails a finger lightly over Derek’s impossibly tight jeans.

“There might be,” Derek grins wolfishly, guiding Stiles hand towards his crotch. “I have something in mind… for extra credit,” he purrs.

Stiles pretends to be scared, swallowing audibly, looking at him with fearful eyes.

A while later he swallows again, although for entirely different reasons, but does so quite happily.

 

  
***

 

  
That afternoon Derek puts his foot down. No more take-away or deliveries. He wants to cook a proper meal, something healthy, yet tasty and since Stiles is mostly clueless about cooking beyond heating up noodles, he decides to just let Derek have his way. They drive to a nearby supermarket to get the ingredients needed, Stiles tagging along mostly for moral support.

“No, absolutely not!”

Derek stares in abject horror at the jumbo-pack of sugary cereal Stiles tries to sneak into the shopping cart. “That will give you a heart attack and clogged arteries by the time you’re 45, if not sooner. I cannot condone this.”

“But they’re so tasty,” Stiles whines, adding his best impression of Vicky’s Bambi-eyed look. To his surprise it seems to act like Derek’s Kryptonite, a realization he tucks away for later misuse. Sadly, Derek isn’t entirely under his thumb yet. After a slightly too long pause, he shakes his head and ends up removing the pack much like you would a batch of radio-active nuclear waste. Stiles finds the comparison more amusing than affronting, but pretends to sulk none the less. Derek makes up for it by adding the pricey pistachios he likes but never can afford to buy.

This is how much of the shopping experience plays out. Stiles trying to coax Derek into increasingly unhealthy stuff, and Derek lecturing and removing said items. Only it’s all done with huge smiles, lots of banter and it’s not until Stiles notices some of the other shoppers giving them knowing looks that he realizes they’re flirting. Outrageously, and very, very publicly. The understanding startles a contradictory reaction. Part pride, because Derek is hot like burning and it’s a miracle he even looks twice at Stiles, and part horror, because what if someone he knows sees this.

He’s annoyed by the last part, mainly because he knows it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and yet he is. He shouldn’t be, but it’s not exactly easy changing the perception of yourself and who you are in the span of a few days, and he suspects he’ll struggle with this for a while.

By the time they’re at the register Derek is giving him odd looks. Still, it’s not until they’ve bagged all the groceries, reach for the same bag and Stiles shies away like he’s been burned when their hands touch, that Derek’s expression sours.

“What?” Stiles asks defensively, knowing exactly what it is, and praying Derek will just let it go.   
He does, but only for the time it takes to walk to the car and put the bags in the trunk. Then he rounds on Stiles, eyes flashing.

“Is this how it’s gonna be?” he asks coolly. “You’re going to be all fire and passion behind closed doors, and then jump away like you’ve been stung by a bee every time we touch in public?”

Stiles scuffs his shoe on the asphalt feeling his cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“No,” he mumbles. “I dunno.” He shrugs helplessly. “It just happened,” he says defensively. “This is all new to me, I need time to adjust or whatnot.”

Derek snorts, slamming the trunk shut.

“Yeah, sure,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “All new, huh?” He shakes his head like he finds Stiles’ explanation ludicrous.

“It is!”

Stiles all but yells, arms windmilling wildly.

“Until a few days ago I’ve had sex with exactly two people, both girls. I’ve made out with maybe seven all in all, all girls. I’ve had exactly one serious relationship, with Lydia, also a girl. So yeah, I feel pretty confident in saying this -” He gestures wildly between the two of them, “is all new to me!”

Derek purses his lips, eyes narrowing like he’s trying do give Stiles a polygraph test with the intensity of his glare. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if he could.

“What about Danny?” Derek spits out. Stiles’ eyes go wide, confusion flooding his brain.

“What about Danny?” he asks, at a total loss as to what Derek is getting at.

“The way you were always flirting with him in high school, there’s no way you weren’t aware that you swing both ways.”

Stiles balks. Takes a step back and simply gawks at Derek. He looks perfectly serious. A bit jealous even, but Stiles doesn’t have time to marvel at that. _Danny_? Had Stiles flirted with Danny? A series of episodes from school flashes before his eyes and he visibly startles.

“You look stunned.”

Derek’s voice has lost the hard edge. Instead, he sounds deflated.

“You never realized, did you?”

Stiles shakes his head, still not sure how to process this. He had actually more than once asked Danny if he found Stiles attractive. He hadn’t really meant anything by it at the time, at least not consciously. In hindsight he definitely understands where Derek is coming from.

“I’m sorry.”

Derek steps closer to him, reaching out tentatively. “It seemed so obvious at the time. I knew you dated Lydia. Of course I knew that, only -” He smiles sheepishly. “I thought you knew you liked guys, too. That you were bisexual.”

“I probably am bisexual,” Stiles admits, the word unfamiliar on his tongue. “But I seriously had no clue back then. Hell, I had no clue even last week,” he admits feeling like the dumbest person ever. “I just need a bit of time to adjust.”

He meets Derek’s eyes, wanting him to know how serious he is about this. “My whole world tilted on its axis when you kissed me. I need to find my balance. I also need to tell the people closest to me.” He pauses. “Also, I should probably have a serious talk with Lydia. I don’t want this to reach her before I’ve had a chance to tell her myself.”

Derek smiles softly, leaning against the car, eyes warm.

“That’s reasonable,” he says in a magnanimous tone.

“Yeah, it is.” Stiles narrows his eyes, walking around the car to climb into the passenger side. “Also, I wasn’t aware you spent all that much time back in the day, scrutinizing my oblivious flirting with Danny.”

He arches an eyebrow. He’s getting better at that, incredibly enough. “Someone might suggest you were stalking me,” he ads innocently.

“Just get your butt in the car, Stiles,” Derek says hurriedly. Stiles cackles for most of the drive back.

 

  
***

 

  
Stiles paints.

Today the brush flows effortlessly, the dull gray wall transforming into a mural of happy memories. He’s not really thinking about any of it, simply allowing his subconscious to guide his hands. When he finally steps back, hours later, to take it all in, it almost knocks the wind out of him.

It’s an homage.

An homage to how things used to be. A happy family. Melissa with her sparkling eyes and wild curls, her mouth curved in a mischievous half-grin. His dad, handsome in his uniform, eyes merry, arms around two boys of about 8 or 9. Scott, dark-haired, cheeks chubby and jaw uneven; Stiles, his hair buzz-cut, a toothless grin and a spatter of moles and freckles.

A unit. An unbreakable force of love that life and circumstance shattered to bits within the span of two years. Normally, it hurts too much to think about it. How it used to be. Stiles has been scared confronting these memories would catapult him into depression if he allowed himself to dig into them. To compare life now with life then. He never dared risk it, not with Scott and his grief and poor Vicky to take care of. It was better to keep it at a distance, hidden behind a thick wall, ignoring it and waiting for it to go away.

Now, however, radiating newfound happiness from every pore, Stiles feels brave enough to face it. To glance back and remember how it was, with fondness and not with fear.

“Wow!”

One of the nurses stares open-mouthed at the masterpiece. Stiles hasn’t even heard her come in, too engrossed in his own work.

“It’s beautiful,” she exclaims, clutching her heart. She’s suspiciously misty-eyed as she walks closer, taking in all the details.

“You’re amazingly talented,” she whispers in awe. “This certainly brightens up the room. We should commission you to do all the rooms. It would certainly brighten up the place, and I think it would do wonders for the patients as well. I can’t for the life of me see why everything is so dreary and dull here.”

Stiles simply laughs, certainly pleased by her praise, but knowing how much he had to plead to be allowed to do this, he thinks it’s a long shot.

“How’s he been?” he asks instead, gesturing towards his dad. He’s drifted in and out of sleep while Stiles has been here, never really especially lucid. Still, for a moment, Stiles had been certain he recognized him.

“Much the same, really,” the nurse says with an apologetic shrug. As if she’s to blame somehow.

“Has he be been talking at all?”

She shakes her head. “Not to my knowledge. Nothing coherent, at any rate. He sometimes produces sounds, but it’s had to tell if it’s an effort to speak or not.”

It’s disappointing news, but for some odd reason Stiles still feels encouraged. With the way things have gone lately, he just can’t help but wonder if his luck is turning. And if so, perhaps his dad will get better too.

He leaves half an hour later, the mural now extending to the next wall with wines full of cherry blossoms engulfing the window. It looks like spring has crawled inside, and for a split second Stiles can almost smell it in the air. Before he leaves, he kisses his dad’s forehead gently, savoring the scent of him. It’s unchanged despite the sterility of the place. Or perhaps it’s simply muscle memory providing his brain the stimuli. Either way, it soothes him.

As he backs away from the bed, Stiles can swear his dad holds his gaze for a few seconds. In a blink, it’s gone, his eyes glassy and distant. Still, Stiles’ heart sings in a harmony of hope.

 

  
***

 

  
It’s another amazing day the likes Stiles only thought existed in John Hughes movies and CW shows. Derek produces a frankly wonderful meal, they spend hours at the beach surfing and just relaxing before retiring back to the house for the evening. They talk, they watch a movie and tumble into bed halfway through when they realize they’re spending more time concentrating on each other than the plot.

In short, it’s perfect.

Stiles wakes the next morning curled against Derek, the sensation of his fingers tracing light symbols on his flesh. It’s so fucking nice his heart threatens to burst out of his chest, and he can’t stop the silly grin from spreading across his face.

“Someone looks happy,” Derek comments huskily.

“Someone is,” Stiles mumbles, stretching to kiss him, morning breath be damned. They kiss languidly, taking their sweet time to enjoy the moment. Stiles has a shift at Bobby’s Market at noon and has promised to look after Vicky later, so they’re not sure when they’ll be able to do this again.

“You thought any more about Cal Arts?” Derek asks against his skin. Stiles tenses a bit. Of course he has. He’s thought of little else since Derek presented him with the application forms.

“Yeah,” he admits.

“And?”

“I’m still contemplating my options,” he admits. “I still have a bit of time, and I wanted to see how things with Scott are progressing. It’s been a bumpy ride so far.”

Derek produces a small sound that’s not entirely pleased with his answer.

“Just don’t wait to long,” he pleads. “It’s only about a week left, you know.”

Stiles runs his fingers through Derek’s hair, marveling at its softness. “I know,” he says.

The sudden thump of the front door being slammed shut vertebrates up the stairs and causes them to freeze abruptly.

“ _Der-bear!_ Where you at, bro?”

The sound of Cora’s voice sing-songing in her trademark taunting tone echoes through the house. Stiles and Derek stare at each other in shock and horror for a split second before they both burst into action. Stiles scampers across the bed, almost toppling off the edge to find his clothes. He picks up his jeans, grabs a shoe and a shirt, spinning in circles to locate the other one. He almost drops everything when Derek lobs it across the room. Stiles notices he’s managed to put on his boxers and little else.

“Derek! Honestly, it’s almost noon. Tell me you’re not still sleeping, you lazy ass.”

Cora’s voice is getting closer fast! It’s clear she’s already on the stairs and Stiles does another fruitless circle before Derek shoves him into his walk-in closet, like a dirty little secret. Stiles isn’t offended. The opposite actually. The idea of facing Cora in his obvious state of undress, bed-hair and possible hickeys on display in her brother’s room - her gay brother’s room - isn’t something he’s too keen on.

Derek throws himself onto the bed, narrowly managing to dive under the covers before the door flies open and Cora saunters in wearing fraying cut-off shorts and a shockingly pink tank top.

“What the fuck?”

Derek does a decent job of acting like she’s awoken him, rubbing his eyes and glaring through narrow eyes.

“Cora? Why aren’t you at college? Did you get expelled?”

Cora flops onto the bed, ruffling his hair.

“Lazy fucker, I thought you were supposed to be writing a book. If this is what it’s like to be an author, sign me up.”

“I was up late writing,” Derek lies indignantly. “Excuse me for having a bit of a lie in. You didn’t answer my questions, by the way.”

Cora grins even wider. “No expulsion, rest assured my academic record is still spotless.”

“Shocking,” Derek mutters and Cora whacks him on the shoulder.

“Play nicely, or I’ll call Laura.”

Derek’s eyes widen.

“You wouldn’t.”

Cora cackles. “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t. But to answer your question, we have a few days without any lectures so I thought I’d come down for the long weekend. Do a bit of surfing, hang with my bro, catch up with Stiles. I heard rumors,” she adds, a note of concern in her voice.

Stiles suffers a small coronary event. What kind of rumors?

“Rumors?” Derek asks, voice horribly squeaky. Stiles cringes. He takes it all back. Derek is a terrible actor.

“Yeah.”

“What kind of rumors?”

Cora sits up cross-legged on the bed, shrugging.

“I heard people saying Scott has a new girlfriend and that he’s been acting even more shitty than before. You know how Stiles is. He wouldn’t say anything if I asked. He’s the sort to suffer in silence and tell you he’s fine. That’s a tell-tale sign that things are anything but, in fact. If Stiles says he’s fine, my alarm bells go off like crazy.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted to check up on him. Also, I want to spend some time with my elusive and introvert older brother before he scampers off to live elsewhere, like the hermit he is.”

“Nice. Wanna go surfing?” Derek suggests.

“Hell yes!” Cora agrees readily. “Which means you have to get up. I’ll find you something to wear.”

Cora hops off the bed, heading for the walk-in closet and Stiles panics. There’s nowhere to hide!

“Whoa, wait a minute!”

He can hear Derek scamper off the bed too, and Cora’s shadow halts a little way from the closet.

“You can’t just show up out of the blue and not give me a hug,” Derek says, engulfing her between his arms, bringing her close.

He spins them so that her back is against the closet and gestures for Stiles to hurry past. It’s such a ludicrous scene, like something out of a laugh track sitcom, but he does so anyway. Tiptoes by Cora, his arms full of clothes and can’t believe it actually works. He gets out of the room and hurries down the stairs. He can hear the two of the start talking again, the murmur of their voices a distant sound. Stiles hurriedly dresses, cursing under his breath when he realize he’s grabbed Derek’s shirt and not his own. Still, there’s nothing to be done about that now.

He opens the front door and intends to close it silently, but misjudges how smoothly it closes, unlike the door at their house that needs a more than gentle shove to close properly. He cringes when the door thuds closed with a much too loud sound, but hurries along without delay, mentally thanking the stars he parked the Jeep further down the street under some trees for shade.

Cora probably didn’t hear that, anyway. Right?

 

  
***

 

 

Stiles is busy locking up Bobby’s Market for the night when there’s a rap on the glass door. Without turning he hollers out “We’re closed!” and continues to sweep behind the register.

“I know that, dipshit!” a familiar voice calls out, amused. “Be a sport and let a girl in. Preferably, also sneak her a soda in the process.”

Stiles turns to find Cora leaning her forehead against the door, blowing air on it so that it fogs the glass. With her index finger she writes out “Let me in” in clumsy block letters.

Stiles shakes his head, but walks over and unlocks the door. She slithers inside, giving him a hug, ruffling his hair in the process.

“So,” she says stepping back, head cocked. “Can I have a soda or will that cause old Finstock to flip his shit?”

Stiles regards her thoughtfully for a moment, then hands her the broom.

“You can have a soda, but you have to earn it. Now, sweep the floors while I wipe down the rest of this cesspool.”

“Slave driver,” Cora mutters darkly, but her eyes are dancing with mirth. Stiles points her sternly in the direction of where a toddler had spilled a pack of Corn Flakes earlier that evening.

“I didn’t know you were back?” Stiles comments off-handedly, avoiding her gaze and hoping he’s a marginally better liar than Derek.

“Didn’t you?” she replies innocently. Stiles feels his blood drop dangerously close to sub zero.

“Nope, what’s up? Got expelled already?”

“Funny how Derek made that exact same joke earlier today.”

Cora is the epitome of calm serenity. Stiles is the definition of chaos come again.

“Funny,” he agrees, scrubbing away with vigor.

For a few minutes they simply work in silence, cleaning and wiping. The place probably hasn’t been this clean since opening twenty years earlier, and if there ever was a convenient time for a health inspection this would be the moment. Stiles is doing a third sweep of the cash register when he realizes Cora has stopped sweeping and is now leaning against a shelf, studying him intently.

“What?” he asks, looking at her quizzically. She has her head cocked and looks uncharacteristically solemn.

“Have you always known?” she asks finally.

“Known what exactly?”

Stiles has a pretty good idea what she’s getting at, but still chooses to feign innocence. She rolls her eyes in that patented Hale way that he now knows even more intimately than before.

“It’s okay,” she says, instead of pursuing the matter or addressing it point blank. “I don’t mind. It doesn’t change anything, I was just wondering is all.”

“You’re not making any sense,” he replies fruitlessly. He’s not kidding anyone, though, least of all Cora Hale.

“Come on, Stiles.” Her voice is warm and friendly. “It’s okay. I’m not judging. Hell, I have no grounds for that. I hooked up with Erica last year. Nothing serious, mind you, but fun as all hell.”

Stiles stares at her agape. Cora laugh is trilling.

“The look on your face! Guys are always so easy that way. The mention of two girls getting it on, and you space out, mind instantly providing visuals, I’m sure. However, the slightest allusion of two guys and most retch or protest too much. Don’t be that guy, okay?”

“I’m not,” Stiles protests weakly, knowing that he’s not entirely truthful. He kind of was that guy. In some ways, he still is.

Cora barrels on, seemingly content enough with his response.

“Anyway, like I said. I don’t care.” She pauses, resting her chin on top of the broom, looking thoughtful. “The fact that it’s my brother is kind of weird,” she muses and Stiles groans.

“Cora!”

“What?” Both her eyebrows almost disappear into her fringe. “It is. It’s not like I asked you about positions and kinks. Although,” she ads musingly. “I am kind of curious.”

Stiles whirls around, back towards her, cheeks blazing. This is exactly everything he’s not ready for all rolled up in one tiny, feisty best friend. He’s not ready for this shit. Maybe he never will be.

“Alright, forget the last part. Strike it from the records.” Cora’s voice is back to being serious, probably sensing Stiles’ distress. “I’ll drop it, okay. I just wanted to let you know I was happy for you. Both of you. And that I’m okay with it.”

She means it. Stiles knows her well enough to know that with every fiber of his being, and it warms him. Still, it scares him too. Not everyone will be like Cora.In fact, most won’t, and he’s had too much to cope with the last few years without adding homophobia and harassment to the mix.

“How did you know?” he asks almost inaudibly. “Did Derek tell you?”

Cora snorts.

“No, Derek didn’t tell a thing. He’s horrid at lying, though so it didn’t take me long to puzzle together that he had someone stashed at the house when I showed up. That hug lasted awfully long for one, and then when the door slammed shut moments later, he claimed it was Theresa.” Cora shakes her head. “Theresa comes on Thursdays. Has done so for years. Also, I found your t-shirt on the floor.”

Cora steps closer to him, poking him in the back with the broomstick. “And you’re wearing his,” she states factually, like she’s a lawyer presenting evidence in a high-profile murder case.

“Can we not talk about this,” Stiles mumbles, still not ready to face her.

“Sure thing, dude. You’re going the traditional route I gather? Ignoring it until it eventually goes away.”

She steps around, smiling sadly. “I’ll leave it alone, I swear. Just, remember. Wait too long and it really does go away. Or Derek moves back and then you’re stuck here with nothing of your own, the way it’s been the last few years. You deserve better. You deserve more.”

There’s a lump in Stiles’ chest that he’s not entirely sure how to deal with. If he speaks it might surface and he’s not sure what will spill out, only that he’s not ready for it.

Cora drops the broomstick, and tugs on Stiles’ sleeve.

“This place is spotless. Finstock won’t recognize it. Let’s get out of here, I wanna go surfing.”

Stiles allows Cora to lead him outside and happily tags along, pushing all difficult and potentially life-altering decisions to the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hangs head in shame* I'm terribly sorry for the long delay on this chapter. Real life and the unfortunate demise of my computer is partly to blame. I also haven't gotten around to replying to all of your wonderful comments yet. Please know that I've read them all and they mean the world to me! ♥


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never they say. I hope they're right.

Stiles returns to the house late, crashing into bed, wiped and exhausted after hours on the water with Cora. It’s just as well. It prevents him from thinking too much about other stuff he can feel coiling around in the deep recesses of his mind, trying to break free, like unruly weeds.

When he wakes the next morning it’s to Vicky gleefully bouncing up and down at the foot of his bed.

“Uncle Stiles!” she trills over and over, like she’s stuck on repeat. “Wake up, wake up, lazy head!”

Stiles throws his pillow in her general direction and groans dejectedly when it zooms past her and lands with a flop on the floor.

“You missed me!” she teases, enunciating every word with a bounce.

“I did,” he admits, voice scratchy, deliberately misunderstanding her. “I missed you a lot, actually. Did you miss me?”

“Nope!”

She throws herself on top of him, then clings to his neck in a surprisingly tight hug for someone so small.

“Your death grip tells me otherwise.”

He feigns distress, pretending to choke. Vicky laughs merrily.

“There you are!”

Scott appears in the doorway, looking haggard and sleep-deprived. “I told you to go brush your teeth. Did you?”

Vicky nods, but Stiles knows that particular bob of her head well. Scott seems to believe her, though, a look of relief on his face.

“ _Vicky_ …”

Stiles drags out the word, staring her down with his best stern Uncle glare. He’s getting rather good at it, he has to admit. Vicky squirms.

“Did you really brush your teeth?”

“No,” she admits sheepishly, glancing at Scott with apprehension. “Sorry, daddy.”

“Great,” Scott mutters. “Now I’m gonna be late for work. Awesome!”

He disappears down the hallway cursing under his breath. Stiles sits up and shoos Vicky into the bathroom, then pads after Scott. He finds him distractedly trying to make a few sandwiches for lunch while brewing a cup of coffee. He’s not succeeding much with either task. Stiles shoves him into a chair.

“Rough night?” he inquires, taking control of the bread, doling out slices in a practice manner, starting to butter them effectively.

“You could say that.” Scott sounds defeated. “We couldn’t get Vicky to go to sleep. When she finally caved, I couldn’t sleep. Malia had to leave early, she had a client to see.”

“Why couldn’t she sleep?” Stiles asks, suddenly worried. She seems fine now.

“I dunno,” Scott admits. “She was just being difficult, claiming everything was wrong. The way I made her sandwiches, the rituals before bed, what story we read.” He shrugs. “I - I don’t know anything about my kid anymore, Stiles.”

Scott’s voice is raw and desperate and the pain in his eyes are real. This is truly hurting him.

“You’ve been kind of absent for a while,” Stiles says, having learned from Malia that the band-aids need to come off where Scott is concerned. “I guess me and her have made new rituals. You’ll catch up soon enough. Or better yet, create your own.”

“I guess.”

Scott’s silent for a while, then glances at the clock on the wall again, panic blooming across his face.

“God, Finstock is gonna kill me!”

He leaps from the chair, but Stiles puts a hand on his arm, stopping him from storming down the hall for Vicky.

“I have a late shift. I’ll get Vicky to the sitter,” he says gently. Scott looks so relieved, it’s like he de-ages 10 years.

“Thanks, man.” He pauses. “I know I rely too much on you , and that’s not fair. Malia’s made that very clear, and I’m doing my best to pull my head out of my ass. I’ll get there, I know I will. I just - I need a bit of time to adjust. To catch up.”

Stiles smiles, feeling a familiar tug at his chest. A tug he hasn’t fully felt in a long time. At least not in a positive way. It’s this enormous magnetic force field pulling him tight to this place. This house. His brother, his niece, his dad.

His life.

It’s felt like a clamp around his feet for a long time. Like cement shoes slowly and surely dragging him down. Drowning his motivation, his joy, his hope. For the first time in what feels like forever, Stiles sees streams of positivity peeking through. A life line that just might save him. A pocket of air, allowing him to hold on just a little longer. Perhaps long enough to break surface again.

It reminds him of how it used to be. How it should be. This is after all still undeniably his home. His family.

Watching Vicky trying to tie her shoe laces, her tongue sticking out in concentration, Stiles is struck by how much a part of him this all is. Suddenly, the notion of abandoning them for something so selfish as Cal Arts and - well, other stuff, seems close to impossible.

Stiles catches Scott looking at him, eyes still haunted, yet there’s a new glint to them. Hope. Stiles wants nothing but to help nurture it, help Scott get back to how he used to be. How can he possibly do that if he’s not here?

It’s a harsh wake-up call, one he’s not sure he can dodge. Or wants to dodge for that matter. This is where he belongs, and he’s simply kidding himself imagining anything else. He’s Stiles Stilinski, not some Disney Princess with a happy ending as soon as Prince Charming shows up. Things don’t magically work out simply because he wants them to. If he walks away now, if he runs off and turns his back on his family, broken as it might be, he’ll always regret it. It’s the kind of guilt he knows he can’t live with.

The realization is hard, yet undeniable. It’s not like he ever really truly thought things could change, after all. Fairytale dreams don’t live here. Reality however, does.

  
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” he says, meaning every word. If the words cut his heart and leaves him bleeding, it doesn’t matter. No one needs to see the wounds on the inside, anyway.

As he ushers Vicky out of the house a while later, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, wincing at the pain reflected back at him in his eyes.

This means letting Derek go. When he leaves for the summer, Stiles will stay behind. At least for now. At least until Scott and Vicky are in a better place.

For a moment this notion cuts so deep and painfully, he almost loses his resolve. Then Vicky weaves her hand into his, staring up at him with those deep brown eyes, cheeks dimpling as she beams up at him, and everything feels slightly better.

Still, the colors of the day feels muted somehow.

 

  
***

  
  
Throughout the day, Stiles is preoccupied trying to come up with a good way to explain the situation to Derek. Thankfully, it’s a slow afternoon at Bobby’s Market. Finstock’s visions for the produce section had, unsurprisingly, put customers off more than drawn them in, and Stiles is tasked with putting everything back to how it was. Perturbed by this failure, Finstock can be heard ranting and raving in the backroom, taking his frustration out empty crates if the sound of wood splintering is anything to go by.

Stiles tunes everything out, focusing on his inner debate. It’s not like he’s giving up, he argues. Not on Cal Arts and certainly not on Derek. Still, he’s apprehensive, unsure how to broach the topic in a way he’ll understand. Derek always gets terse and annoyed whenever Stiles tries to downplay his talent or even hints at not applying to Cal Arts.

Stiles feels his cheeks warm, overcome with appreciation. It’s been a while since anyone paid much attention to him and his passions. Having Derek show such fiery interest really does feel good. Good, and somehow also scary. Now, for the first time since his dad fell ill, Stiles has someone to let down.

It’s not like I’m giving up on it, he argues defensively. He just has to make Derek understand why he’ll wait a semester to apply.

That seems easy enough in theory, but Stiles knows explaining this will be anything but. Still, it’s the truth. He wants to apply. He wants to give this thing with Derek a chance, scary as it might be. He just can’t do it right now. Not yet.

Thinking back on the incident at the grocery store and how hurt and mad Derek had been when Stiles had pulled his hand away, he realizes that’s his biggest concern. That Derek will view this small setback as Stiles pulling away. That he’s scared to really be with him. To be - gay or whatever. And he is. Stiles is man enough to admit that part of him is scared shitless at the notion of redefining his sexuality and way of thinking. It’s all a jumble of new feelings, realizations and categorizations that he frankly struggles to make heads or tails off. But he’s even more scared of not giving it a chance.

Stiles is busy running through different scenarios of how to approach Derek, balancing precariously on top of a wobbly step-ladder, when his phone buzzes insistently in his pocket. He narrowly manages to avoid toppling to the floor in a heap of asparagus and broccoli, fishing it out.

“Hello?” he answers breathlessly, pulse racing. He recognizes the number to the nursing home where his dad is.

“Mr.Stilinski, this is -”

“Is he okay? Tell me he’s okay,” Stiles interrupts, voice wobbly. There’s a small sigh on the other end.

“Yes, Mr. Stilinski. Your father is doing fine. I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”

Stiles exhales audibly, his body sagging with relief. Part of him feels as if he’s been holding his breath since the moment his dad was admitted. Like he’s walking on eggshells waiting for bad news to ambush him at any given moment. He slumps down onto an upturned crate, heartbeat still racing.

“It’s okay,” he says automatically, his fingers white from the death grip on his phone. “What can I do for you?”

The voice on the other end goes silent for a few seconds, probably still a bit taken aback by Stiles’ intense reaction. He distracts himself by picking up an over-ripe tomato, careful not to squish it between his fingers as he waits, dread still churning in his stomach.

“This is a delicate matter,” the man on the other end finally settles on. “I would appreciate if we could meet in my office. Perhaps later this evening? I would prefer to talk face to face.”

Stiles has little choice but to agree, and several attempts to prod for hints leads him nowhere. He swiftly wraps the conversation up when Finstock crashes back into the store, ranting about lobster tanks. Stiles only listens with half an ear, too preoccupied with thoughts of Scott and Vicky, potential trouble with his dad’s care and the unwanted postponement of Cal Arts and Derek. Still, he knows without a shadow of a doubt it’s Finstock’s worst idea to date, and he can’t wait to witness the tantrum he’ll throw when it fails miserably. Yeah, Stiles is kind of an asshole like that, but since his life is kind of splitting at the seams he'll take whatever pleasure he can get.

 

  
***

 

Stiles returns home that night to a quiet house, which suits him fine. His head feels hollowed out, his heart heavy.

“Hello?” he calls, toeing off his shoes and dropping his messenger bag to the floor by the kitchen door. “Anybody home?”

Malia materializes in the doorway to the living room, her hair adorned with multiple braids, pins and headbands. Her mouth is sporting a shockingly red lipstick, smudged in places. There’s even some on her teeth.

“Wow, love the new look,” he says deadpan, arching an eyebrow. Malia pokes her tongue out before sauntering into the kitchen, the ludicrous braids whipping around behind her. She comes back a moment later with two beers and a wad of paper towels.

“Scott has a late shift,” she explains as she tries to wipe the worst off her face. She only succeeds in smearing it across most of her cheeks. Stiles snorts and shakes his head in amusement. She looks like the Joker’s daughter. Malia evidently gives up, rolls her eyes and tosses the red-smudged ball of paper on the table, leaning back in her chair with a sigh.

“Vicky’s been a little drama queen tonight,” she explains. “With both Scott and you out, she pulled out all her stubborn traits, refusing to do anything I said. It was easier to just surrender and let her butcher my makeup. My phone is filled with photos of her posing like a little diva, not a speck of unadorned skin in sight.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow, taking a long pull of his beer. Half of what Malia just said made zero sense to him.

“The important thing,” Malia continues warily, “is that she exhausted herself and is now sound asleep.”

“It’ll get better,” Stiles assures her. Vicky is testing Malia’s boundaries, making sure she’ll stick it out even if she’s acting like a little brat.

“I’m sure it will,” Malia agrees. “She’s adorable despite her many antics. I’m growing fond of her. I just wish she at least would behave around Scott, but she’s even worse with him.”

Stiles only nods, not sure what to say to that. He’s no shrink by far, but he can sort of understand Vicky. She’s lost much in her short life. First her mom, and then her dad more or less mentally shunned her for the better part of a year just when she needed him the most. That kind of betrayal will take time to overcome. Trust takes time to build and only a moment to destroy.

“You truly are a lifesaver, Stiles,” Malia says out of nowhere, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I don’t think you get nearly enough credit and praise for everything you’ve done for Vicky. How you’ve stepped up, without complaint and put your whole life on hold. I’m in awe of you. I really am.”

Stiles squirms, not sure how to handle the well of warmth exploding inside his chest.

“It’s no big deal,” he mutters. Malia tosses a pillow at him, eyes flashing.

“Don’t do that! Don’t downplay your role. You’re the most important person in Vicky’s life right now. I can’t thank you enough for that. We really do appreciate everything you’ve done. In time I really hope Vicky will learn to trust Scott again, and perhaps even allow me into her life, too. In the meantime, we’re blessed to have you.”

They fall into silence after that. Stiles doesn’t trust his own voice to say anything, but Malia doesn’t seem to expect any retort. She rises as soon as she’s finished with her beer, clasping Stiles on the shoulder as she walks by, heading for bed. Stiles is left sitting alone, hand cradling a bottle of lukewarm beer, thoughts running circles around his head.

Whatever direction he turns, all points lead back here. Vicky still needs him. And his dad… Stiles flashes back to the meeting with the manager at the nursing home. He’d only caught half of what had been said. Only registered two key points - one, his dad’s health is deteriorating and two, the care going forward will cost more. There is no way Stiles can cover that, help care for Vicky and move away with Derek to attend Cal Arts.

The living room gradually falls into darkness, shadows moving in, engulfing him, and as always Stiles feels powerless to fend them off.

 

 

****

 

  
The next couple of days are busy. Stiles works longs shifts at Finstock every day, sometimes offering to stay longer, mostly to keep himself occupied. Finstock is so stoked by his newfound work ethics he’s threatening to include Stiles in his will.

When he’s not working, Stiles does what he’s always done. He takes care of his family. Only difference now is that Scott makes more of an effort. Malia has convinced him to start seeing a grief councilor twice a week. Those sessions always leave him irritated and drained, so Stiles takes Vicky out of the house on those nights. Mostly they go to the park where Stiles sits on a bench sketching while Vicky plays.

It’s a lazy afternoon, the sun soon to be setting and Stiles sits in his usual spot, sketching two young boys playing in the sandbox. He’s engrossed in his work, only occasionally checking to see that Vicky’s safe and happy, but he’s not too worried. It’s an fenced in park, and there’s only a handful of kids here today, all with adult supervision, all of whom Stiles have met before.

A shadow falls over him just as he’s working on some shading, and he looks up surprised to find Erica beaming down on him. Her blond curls dance around her face in the light breeze, making her look especially stunning. Stiles instantly wants to draw her too. To capture her radiance.

_“Roger!”_

A small flash barrels past them, and soon the air is filled with the combined sound of Roger the dog’s happy yipping and Vicky’s delighted laugh.

“Well, that’s a happy reunion,” Stiles comments dryly, gesturing for Erica to take a seat.

“He’s been tugging on the leash like crazy the last couple of blocks,” she grins, staring at the puppy with fond exasperation. “I thought he’d caught the scent of a cat or something, but I stand corrected.”

Stiles thinks how great it would be if Vicky could have a dog of her own, but with the crazy work schedules he and Scott keeps, that would be near impossible.

“So, how have you been?” Erica asks.

She smiles at him, and for a moment Stiles is sure there’s more to the question than she’s letting on. Some deeper, hidden meaning or veiled accusation. After all, the last time he saw her, he ended up spending most of the night tossing a Frisbee back and forth with Derek and ignoring his kind-of-girlfriend.

“I’m okay,” he says. “You?”

“I’m awesome!” Erica informs him, her lips parting in a huge smile. “I’m engaged!”

She brandishes her hand in his face, waggling her fingers to show off a nice ring.

“Wow! Boyd?” he asks. She nods happily.

“Took me totally by surprise. I didn’t see it coming at all, can you believe it?”

“Well, I’m not surprised, and I hardly know the guy. It was easy to see that he adores you. Like you hung the moon, or something.” He shrugs, giving her his best smile. Erica coos.

“Stiles Stilinski! You’re a closet romantic! How come I didn’t know this about you?”

“I’m not!” he protests wildly.

“Of course not,” Erica says with a wink. “I’m betting you’ll be the next to settle down. I saw it, you know. At my place a few weeks back. You’ll be dropping down on one knee soon enough, Stilinski. When you do, I wanna be in your wedding party.”

Stiles shakes his head. Erica has always been crazy.

“We’re not even really together,” he says. “I mean, I’ve been meaning to break it off for ages. Not that we ever really officially said we were a couple, so I don’t know the etiquette exactly.” He shrugs. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, please don’t tell. I wanna do it myself.”

Erica looks mildly confused. “Sure,” she says, giving him an odd look. “Mum’s the word. I don’t see how I’d be in a position to say anything, anyway, but I promise.”

Stiles cocks his head, curiously. “What do you mean? You hang out with Lydia all the time.”

Erica bursts out laughing, eliciting several odd stares from the people on the other benches.

“Lydia? Good one!”

She chortles, slapping Stiles on the arm causing him to drop his pencil. She stops abruptly when she realizes he’s not laughing along with her.

“Oh, you’re not joking, are you?” Erica stares at him for a long minutes, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “I’m sorry, I was so sure you were with Derek.”

Stiles averts his eyes, busying himself with looking for the pencil. His ears betray him, though, positively radiating heat.

“Oh, Stiles.” Erica’s voice is soft and a bit sad. “I’m sorry if I put you on the spot. If you’re not ready to come out -.”

“I’m not in the closet, Erica!” he cuts her off. “I’m not gay, okay?”

“Okay,” she says. “But if you found yourself to be, it wouldn’t be so bad. Derek’s a good guy.”

“He is,” Stiles admits. “He’s also leaving soon. I’m never leaving this place, so what’s the point?”

Erica doesn’t comment, simply sits back next to him, watching Vicky and Roger the dog chase each other around the park, a slew of other kids on their tail.

“Sometimes there is no point,” she says softly. “Sometimes there’s just living, and since we only get one shot at it I think we should make it count.”

It’s a fair point. But then again, Stiles has more to take into consideration that Erica. Scott, his dad and Vicky are a hell of a lot more complicating factors than Roger the dog, after all.

 

  
***

 

  
Derek calls. Repeatedly.

Stiles never picks up. Derek also leaves voice messages that Stiles deletes before listening to them. It’s best that way, he reckons. Less chance of him getting tempted to see him again. It hurts enough as it is, no need to torture himself unnecessarily.

Derek texts as well, and at first Stiles makes up a few excuses not to meet up, like late shifts and needing to babysit Vicky. After a while he just conveniently forgets to reply. After a few days it would be too weird to suddenly start answering again anyway, so he simply continues to ignore them.

Ignorance. It’s worked before, it should work again. Right?

It works for a six days. Then Derek shows up at Finstock’s and Stiles’ carefully constructed plan of eternally ignoring him is shot to hell.

“Stiles, we need to talk.”

Derek takes him completely by surprise, simply materializing in the produce section while Stiles is refilling the vegetables and covertly weeding out the bad ones without Finstock noticing. His employer is of the firm belief all items in the shop should be sold, preferably at a too-high markup.

Stiles is halfway through inspecting the avocados, and accidentally squashes one between his fingers at the sound of Derek’s voice. It’s definitely to ripe to be sold.

“Not now,” he mumbles, throwing the remnants into the waste bucket next to him and wiping his hands on the already dirty apron. “I’m working.”

“I know that,” Derek says with forced patience. “I ended up having to call Scott in hopes of getting hold of you. I talked to his new girl. Malia, right? She happily provided me with the details of your work schedule. Turns out you’re not working nearly as many shifts a week as you’ve been telling me. Makes a guy wonder,” he ads through clenched teeth.

“Sorry,” Stiles dismisses. Seeing Derek again hurts. He’s done a somewhat good job of convincing himself he doesn’t miss him, but that notion’s squashed alongside the unfortunate avocado.

“How about you stop saying sorry for once.” Derek’s voice is more sad than mad, and it’s more than Stiles deserves. “You’re always sorry. Always apologizing, rearranging your life, your wants, your needs around other people. Is this what’s happening again? Scott’s not happy you’ve found someone? Or is it the guy thing?”

“Dude, stop,” Stiles hisses, grabbing hold of Derek and steering him through the swinging doors to the backroom. They were starting to draw attention from nosy shoppers, and Stiles refuses to turn his private business into a public display of drama. He guides them further into the storage area, but soon stops, sighing dejectedly. It’s not like he can run away from this confrontation, however much he wants to. Rows and rows of canned goods and half-bad produce is not exactly a nice backdrop for matters of the heart, but that only means it compliments Stiles’ life perfectly.

Derek is looking at Stiles expectantly.

“Well,” he prompts, arms swung wide, almost knocking over a crate of cantaloupes. “I’m waiting. What’s with the elaborate hide and seek?”

Stiles squirms. “I can’t do this,” he finally presses out, eyes not meeting Derek’s. “It’s been nice and all, but -”

“Nice?” Derek splutters.

Stiles cringes. Yeah, that didn’t come out right. He made it sound like a lackluster Sunday brunch with a distant aunt. It had been anything but.

“Don’t make this harder than it is,” he pleads. “I can’t do it, okay? I have a life here, and I don’t want to mess it up. I need to be here for my dad and for Scott.” He pauses, then adds “I’m sorry,” meaning it with every fiber of is being.

Derek doesn’t say anything for a long while. His face is mostly unreadable, only the slightest twitch of his mouth, like he’s chewing on something bitter but doesn’t want to let on. In the end he simply sighs. Not dramatically, not angrily. It’s just a sigh, neutral almost, which means it’s anything but. Stiles appreciates the effort. If Derek had gone with anger or tears it would have destroyed him.

“I am too,” Derek says solemnly. “Sorry, that is. I think you’re making a huge mistake, but it’s yours to make and I can’t force you to change your mind.”

Stiles scuffs the tip of is shoe on the concrete, kicking around dust and pieces of cardboard. He has no idea what to say, so he simply remains silent.

“I’m leaving,” Derek says a few uncomfortable moments later.

Even though he’s known for weeks and weeks that Derek’s presence here is just temporary the finality of this statement shakes Stiles to his core. He stiffens, breath hitching, but simply nods.

“When?”

“In a week or so. Next Friday at the latest.”

Seven days give or take. Stiles needs to get through seven more days, then Derek will leave and the loss of proximity will hopefully dull the ache in is chest to something a bit more manageable. Now it feels like being continuously stabbed with a dull and rusty knife.

“Best of luck,” he says stoically, mentally cringing at how hollow the words sound. So fake. “You know, with the apartment and the writing.”

“Thanks.”

Derek straightens, his composure suddenly all business-like. As if they’d been discussing the price of produce and not sealing the fate of their whirlwind romance in the most unromantic setting known to man.

As the final nail in the coffin, Finstock pokes his head inside the door, looking around frantically, hair in wild disarray and his slightly bugged eyes narrowing almost threateningly when he spots them loitering about.

“Stilinski!” he yells gesturing wildly. “The ails don’t restock themselves, you know. Chop chop!” He sneers in Derek’s direction. “I don’t know who you are, but I do know I’m not paying you, which means I can tell you to get the hell out of here without losing any sleep or risking some union rep breathing down my neck citing some sort of workers violation.”

“No worries, boss,” Stiles sighs placidly. “Derek was just leaving.”

“Good.”

Finstock holds the door open, watching intently as Derek makes his way into the shop.

“I expect you’ll stay an extra half hour this afternoon,” he says sweetly, grinning with entirely too much teeth for it to be classified as friendly. “To make up for this unscheduled break, I mean.”

Stiles shrugs. “Sure,” he mutters, meeting Derek’s eyes for a split second. He can see the plea in them, begging him to change his mind. There’s a split second where his will power almost gives out.

Then Finstock shoves a crate of apples into is arms, knocking the wind out of him. When he looks up again, Derek’s gone, the faint sound of the door bell chiming the only residue of his visit. It soon dies out, and Stiles dies along with it.

 

 

  
***

 

  
The next three days drag by at a docile snail’s pace and every minute of every hour feels like its own form of purgatory for Stiles. His logical and analytical side still firmly believes he’s made the right decision, but his emotional id is in open rebellion. It’s a civil war waged within and it’s all he can do not to implode like a nuclear bomb gone awry.

The time spent with Vicky is the best. She manages to keep his mind off it for brief moments, always with a slew of questions, crazy antics and limitless energy. She spends a considerable time pestering Stiles to take her to see Roger the dog again, and eventually Stiles relents. He’s starved for adult company anyway after more or less isolating himself to is room. It’s come to the point where he’s willing to endure the prying nature of Erica if it means not staring at his own walls yet another afternoon.

The excited yips of Roger the Dog starts before they even enter the street. Vicky soon replies with her own gleeful shrieks of excitement, skipping happily down the street pulling Stiles along like a limp rag doll.

“Slow your stroll, cutie,” he mock pants, stopping to lean on a lamp post, pretending to be out of breath. Vicky sees right through his act, giving him the stink eye.

“Your pants are on fire, uncle Stiles,” she says with the air of an affronted 1950s middle class wife, complete with a cocked hip and arms crossed. All that’s lacking is a condescending finger pointed at him and she’ll have the role down pat.

Roger the dog barks again, paws clawing at the gate and Vicky runs off, peels of laughter trailing behind her. Stiles follows the chorus of yips and shrieks and soon finds them entangled, a myriad of hands, paws, tail and lolling tongues. He observes them with amusement for a moment, then heads up to the door, knocking softly.

“Get your cute butt in here, Stilinski!”

Erica’s sultry voice seeps through the screen door. Stiles opens it, peering inside. A manicured hand emerges from the kitchen door, waving him in.

“How did you know it was me?” he asks curiously. Erica snorts.

“The urchin isn’t exactly ninja material. I heard her long before I saw you. Besides, there’s no one else that gets Roger that excited.”

She emerges, a piece of toast jammed into her mouth and she’s hopping around trying to get into a pair of insane stilettos. Her hair is a halo of gorgeous curls and her lips her trademark red. In short, she looks stunning.

“Sorry,” she presses out, the word slightly muffled by the toast. “I’m on my way out to meet Boyd. First a movie, then a shameless hook-up in the nearest alley. I’m classy like that,” she winks, breezing by him.

“Oh, sorry,” Stiles says hurriedly, heading for the door. “I’ll try to pry Vicky away. We can come back another time.”

“Nonsense!” Erica grabs him by the hoodie, steering him towards the sofa. “No need to leave on my account. Mi casa es su casa, mi amigo.”

“No -.”

Erica shushes him, then shoves him down into the sofa, handing him a beer. Stiles has no idea where she got it. He accepts it dumbfounded and dutifully takes a sip. Erica smiles widely, clapping her hands together with an air of supreme glee. It’s a foreboding sight making Stiles’ spidey senses tingle.

“Shit!” she exclaims, grabbing her handbag and sprinting for the door. “I’m so late, Boyd will kill me. Or not. But he will punish me.” She grins devilishly, eyes sparkling. “I can’t wait.”

Before Stiles can get another word out, Erica has exited the house. All that lingers is the whiff of her perfume. Stiles sits for a moment, at a loss for what to do now. Erica didn’t leave any instructions or a house key. He can’t exactly leave without locking the place up.

Before he can formulate a plan, the back door opens and someone steps inside. A moment later Stiles and Lydia stare at each other from opposite ends of the room, both with a lock of ill-concealed horror on their faces.

“Well,” Lydia says after a tense minute. “This is awkward.”

Stiles laughs, probably more out of nerves than anything. Trust Lydia to state the obvious.

“Yeah, it kind of is,” he admits, picking at the label on the bottle.

“I wondered about the ruckus in the yard,” she admits, peering out the window, spotting Vicky and Roger. She smiles softly. “I should have guesses Vicky was here. Roger adores her.”

“The feeling is very much mutual,” Stiles comments dryly. “He’s all she talks about and she’s been hounding me for days to come see him. I finally relented, and Erica just dumped me here without explanation. I had no idea you were coming.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, kicking off her shoes. “Typical Erica,” she says with fond exasperation. “I was roped into dog sitting duty,” she explains.

“You can take a load off, then. Vicky’s got first shift covered.”

Lydia laughs, tossing her hair back. She regards Stiles, eyes somewhere between fond and sad. It makes him squirm a bit, but he has avoided Lydia for too long as it is. Perhaps it’s for the best that they have a real conversation, spelling things out instead of avoidance and half-truths.

Lydia pats into the kitchen and returns a moment later with a generous glass of white wine and a bowl of chips. She settles into the armchair, tucking her feet underneath her. For a little while they just sit there, sipping their drinks. The tension is thick, although not as hostile as Stiles had expected.

“I’m sorry,” he finally blurts, cheeks blazing. The words simply spew out of him, like a reflex. He has no idea how to follow up or what to say now, though. Almost as if he’s emptied all of his stomach content in one fell swoop and is now left hollow and exhausted, still with a foul taste in his mouth that he immediately recognizes as guilt. There’s a lot of it.

Lydia regards him for a moment. “I know,” she says simply.

Of course she does. She’s Lydia Martin, top of her class, valedictorian and voted most likely to rule the world by her mid 20s. Stiles still thinks it’s a crime against humanity that she’s here, working as a waitress when she should be discovering new facets to quantum science or whatnot. In his own haze of depression it’s easy to forget that he’s not the only one dealt a bad hand in life.

“So,” she says after a tense minute. “How long have you known. That you were bisexual, I mean,” she adds in clarification, putting it squarely out there before Stiles is given the chance to try and act dumb. Not that such tactics usually works on Lydia. Not when she’s being this direct. It’s like a door being flung open, giving him a glimpse of the old Lydia. How she used to be in high school, full of self-esteem and a blunt no-bullshit filter. He’s missed her.

“I dunno, about ten days or so.”

Lydia stares at him flatly, head cocked, obviously waiting for him to burst out laughing, revealing it as a joke.

“Oh, lord,” she finally whispers, eyes wide. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. I managed to surprise myself quite a bit with that one.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly,” Stiles confirms, raising a hand. “I’ll swear on a bible if that’ll help.”

“No need for that,” Lydia chortles, setting down her glass. “For a smart guy you can be really daft sometimes. You know that right?”

“I know now.”

“But what about Danny?”

The note of frustration in her voice is clear. Stiles once asked Lydia to tutor him in calculus. Big mistake. This feels exactly the same. She always got painfully frustrated when what was obvious to her wasn’t obvious to others.

“Crap, not you too,” Stiles whines, slumping further into the couch, head thrown back rubbing his eyes. “I’ve recently been made aware that I apparently had some sort of bi-curious fascination with him back in high school, but I swear the thought never occurred to me at the time. There was no covert plan or attempts at veiled hints. I just did what I always did back then, you know.” He shrugs. “Blurt out whatever came to mind without much thought. Hashtag no filter.”

“Bi-curious is underselling it with about a mile,” Lydia comments with a raised eyebrow. “You were all but drooling. It was cute,” she adds, taking another sip of her wine.

Stiles feels run over. Like a semi-trailer just mowed him down, and he spends the next few minutes thinking back on high school and Danny. In retrospect, he has to admit it was probably obvious. Just not to him.

He half expects Lydia to be pissed, but she’s clearly not. Instead, she looks almost wistful.

“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” she says almost absentmindedly. She looks like she’s working on a particularly difficult math problem, nose scrunched, eyes squinting. For a split second Stiles is transported back to high school and the Lydia of old. The Lydia who ran circles around most teachers with her brilliant mind, learned Archaic Latin for fun and was more blunt than diplomatic. Stiles feels almost nostalgic, realizing he’s missed Lydia’s bossy alter-ego that’s been all but erased by unfortunate circumstance and the toils of minimum wage waitressing.

“So, do you love him?”

Stiles chokes on his beer, some of it getting on Erica’s carpet. He takes it all back! He doesn’t miss her bluntness at all!

“Oh, come on,” he says, averting his eyes, ears radiating. Lydia wordlessly hands him a napkin and Stiles wipes away most of the beer he’s spilled all over himself.

“Seriously,” Lydia says, voice low, yet firm. “He’s a good guy, Stiles.” She’s silent for a moment before shew whispers “You don’t belong to people forever.”

It’s a strange thing to say. Stiles isn’t sure how to interpret it. Does she mean their relationship? Is she kinda letting him off the hook? Or is she implying whatever this thing with Derek was, it won’t last so he should enjoy it? He’s too scared to ask, so he simply says “Then why bother?”

“Isn’t it worth it?” Lydia whispers, and in that moment there is no doubt. She’s letting him go.

“Yeah,” he says, grateful beyond words for this goddess of a woman who he’s lucky enough to call his friend. Best friend, even.

Outside Vicky and Roger the dog continues to play in perfect bliss. Stiles wishes he could share in their elation, but something is still holding him back. Circumstance, loyalty and a generous helping of fear keeps him from coloring outside the lines, even if he’s beginning to think there might just be a masterpiece waiting out there, beyond the mountains of responsibility.

Perhaps one day he’ll be free to chase it.


End file.
